


The Fallen Angel

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Eventual minor Holmescest, Explicit Sexual Content, Jim is the actual Devil, Lots of sorcery, M/M, Reichenbach Falls, Sabotage, Temptation, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's Reichenbach plan gets a little skewed thanks to Jim's big secret. Now that he belongs to the last creature you'd ever want to meet, what option does Sherlock have but to obey?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prince of Darkness is a Gentleman

Sherlock had been fostering just a tiny hope that there was a way out of this that didn’t involve jumping off any buildings, but of course that wasn’t to be. He needed Moriarty gone once and for all; he needed to hurt his friends to make sure they were safe. The detective tossed his phone aside, hands clenching unconsciously. He could see John below, prayed the doctor would stay where he was and let him follow through with the plan. In fifteen minutes Sherlock would be in the morgue helping Molly fake his autopsy and he’d be fifteen minutes closer to coming back. He took a breath and fell.

It was odd, he thought. He’d seen Jim’s body flat on the roof, red pooling around him. But the man standing in the street looking up, hands in his coat pockets…he almost looked…

Sherlock hit the pavement and the rush of the wind was replaced by nothing but black.

*****

Waking up was like someone throwing on the lights. There was no gentle pull, no slow spiral towards consciousness. He had a sort of hollow feeling like he wasn’t quite in his own skin but his mind buzzed along faster than ever. Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. He climbed off the morgue table, looking around.

“Molly? Molly, we need to hurry up.”

As if she’d heard him, the pathologist walked in.

“Ah, good. You’ve got the body ready?”

But she acted like he wasn’t there, walking straight past.

“Sherlock?” she whispered.

“There’s no need to be quiet, Mycroft’s people will keep everyone away.”

“Sherlock?”

“What?” he sighed with exasperation, turning to look at her.

It wasn’t just her though.

Molly stood at the end of the table, looking down on Sherlock’s body.

For the first time not involving chemicals, Sherlock’s brain shut down. He stared at the facts that refused to compute. The Sherlock on the table had half his head smashed in, a detail they had definitely not agreed on. Molly was still calling his name, shaking him now. Tears welled up as she scrambled to get his scarf out of the way, fingers pressed against his neck in a vain search for a pulse.

“Molly!” Sherlock yelled, “Molly, I’m here!”

“She can’t hear you darlin’.”

The voice startled him. Sherlock snapped his head to the side, staring at the figure standing so close they were almost touching.

“No. No, this is impossible. You’re dead.”

Jim smiled. “You’re smarter than that, dear. Think.”

Sherlock frowned, blinking furiously as he tried to remember. “You were there…on the ground. In front of Bart’s.”

“Correct.”

“You did something.” He glanced again at his body.

“Well you were cheating. I couldn’t let you win the game that way.” He wrinkled his nose.

“I’m…I fell.” Sherlock said breathlessly.

“Exactly as I asked you to. You were wonderful, darlin’.”

Molly gave up and reeled away from the corpse, tripping over a neighbouring table. She went down and stayed there, hugging her knees with one arm as she pressed a hand to her face.

“Look, she’s figuring it out too,” Jim said gleefully, “Isn’t she cute?”

 

Sherlock felt like he was drowning. He was too clever not to understand the reality, but he couldn’t quite grip it. He was dead? He’d failed. He’d left the people who needed him. Mycroft. Lestrade. John – oh God, John. He’d been beaten and now who’d save them?

The thought made him frown. “How did you do it?”

“Do what?” Jim strolled over to Molly.

“You survived the gunshot – that could have been faked, of course – but how did you get down to sabotage my jump so quickly? How did you even know about it?”

Jim crouched next to the weeping doctor and smirked up at him. He leaned towards her and inhaled. Something streamed off the girl into his nostrils, something wispy and blue that made Sherlock’s stomach ache just looking at it. Molly gave a momentary shudder and started crying again.

“You remember our debate about whether or not the great Sherlock was an angel?” Jim stood again.

“Obviously.”

“Well I meant it in a more literal sense than you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Jim tilted his head. “I know you’re going to struggle with this one, because you love your rational mind so much. How about another demonstration?”

He held out a hand and snapped his fingers, a flame blossoming out of his palm until his whole hand was on fire. Jim’s face stayed calm though, turning it in the air with a pensive look.

“You expect me to believe you’re some kind of supernatural being?” Sherlock raised his brows scornfully, “Like a demon?”

“Not _like_ anything, Sherly. That’s exactly what I am. They used to call me Lucifer, but I’m fine with whatever you prefer: Satan, Beelzebub, the Devil, the Antichrist, the Serpent, the Beast, Prince of Darkness-”

“The Devil doesn’t exist.”

Jim smiled slowly. He snapped and the flames went out, his skin untouched.

“That’s your gorgeous brain again. Use your eyes instead, Sherly.”

“You don’t exactly look like the Devil.”

“What, because there are no horns or cloven hooves? I just showed you the hellfire, Sherlock. It’s much easier to tempt people when you’re hiding in plain sight.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what this was? You were tempting me?”

“And it worked out nicely, didn’t it?”

“I may be dead, but you’ve failed in making me sacrifice anyone for my sake. I could even argue I’m a better person than I was before our game.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to corrupt you Sherly. No, I’m well aware that’s something you do all by yourself.”

“Then why do this?” Sherlock scowled.

Jim stepped closer, close enough that Sherlock could feel an enormous heat rolling off him that had never been there before.

“It was the only way to keep you, Sherly. I couldn’t control you as a man with all those other people interfering – but you’re on my turf now. I own you, Sherlock Holmes. I. Own. You.”

 

Sherlock was overwhelmed by the words. They seemed to have a blackness attached to them that frightened him in a primal, ancient way, a depth echoed in Jim’s stare. But he shook it off, determined to be sensible.

“I don’t believe you.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Do I lack credibility? I can see how you’d think that, pop culture has been so rough on me these last two thousand years.”

“If your discussion of the angels was literal, that implies there is a God, a positive counterpart to yourself.”

Jim smirked. “Go on.”

“So since I am not, at heart, a bad person and did in fact lose my life in what could be called a martyr’s death, the only side with a claim on my soul is your so-called angels.”

Jim burst out laughing. It was so loud Sherlock took a step back, brows snapping up.

“Sherly, Sherly, that was beautiful reasoning. This is why you’re my favourite. But you’re working without the full data. What do most religions say about suicide?”

Sherlock paled slightly. “It’s a sin.”

“And what is jumping off a building of your own free will usually classified as?”

His voice was small, so small it sounded like a child’s. “Suicide.”

“Very good, Sherly! Which puts you firmly back on my side of the line.”

“You set this up.”

“Naturally.”

“The whole thing was arranged so I had to fake my death, otherwise you could never touch me.”

“And now I’ve got you. Isn’t it grand?”

“What are you hoping to gain by it?”

Jim circled him slowly, tracing a hand across his shoulders. “I think you’d make a marvellous demon, honey. All dark curls and sharp eyes. You could turn Mother Teresa into a sinner.”

“I’ll never help you.” Sherlock said, voice shaking just a little.

Jim pursed his lips. “Isn’t that cute! You still think you have a choice.”

He pressed his fingertips against Sherlock’s chest and the man flew backwards into the morgue drawers, crumpling to his knees. Jim strode over and grabbed his coat, hauling him to his feet.

“You are _mine_ , Sherlock Holmes! There is no escape this time – by the laws of heaven itself you belong to me.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Then I’ll spend my eternity making you as miserable as possible.”

“God, I hope so. It would be boring if you just gave in.”

 

Jim released him slowly, straightening his lapels. His smile was back, canines sharper than before. Sherlock thought he caught a flash of red in those dark eyes as the demon stepped away.

“Are we done, Sherly? I’m bored of this. She makes so much noise!” he rolled his eyes, glaring at Molly.

“Go ahead. I prefer it here.”

He quirked his lips. “Ah, the defiance begins. Alright, I’ll play.”

Jim walked towards Molly, never breaking eye contact. He raised a hand, flexing his fingers. Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe (and then got mildly distracted wondering why dead people would need to breathe anyway) before Jim recaptured his attention. The devil laid his hand on Molly’s shoulder and she gasped, clutching at her chest as if the skin was on fire.

“Stop it.”

“No no, you wanted to play Sherly. This is my turn.”

“Stop it!”

Molly screamed, nails raking over her own neck. Sherlock ran forward and hovered next to them, unsure if he should interfere.

“Please, stop!”

“She should rip out her own throat in about…forty seconds?” Jim mused.

“I’ll go with you! I’ll go, just leave her alone.”

“And you’ll cooperate?”

“I will, anything you want!”

Jim let go. Molly reeled forward, coughing and gasping for air. He dusted off his hands before holding one out for Sherlock.

“Come along then.”

Sherlock took one last look at his body, the curls matted with red bits of brain, the skin chalky white. Molly seemed better, massaging her neck gingerly and blinking away tears again. He looked back at Jim’s hand and the rigid set of his jaw and reached out, lacing his fingers with the devil’s.

“Hang on.”

 

The world shifted around them. To Sherlock it felt like the pair were frozen, blurs of colour shifting and streaking past until they rearranged themselves into a perfectly ordinary street in what looked like Mayfair. Jim released his hand and headed for a large townhouse. The only difference between it and its neighbours was the stone it was made of, slightly darker, slightly more neglected. The gables were a deep black that made him think of falling again when he looked directly at them. The door was blood red and Jim pressed a hand to the surface, reaching back to take Sherlock’s again.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“My London connection.”

“This leads to hell?” Sherlock said reluctantly.

“Not quite. The real thing’s much further away – think of this as a waystation.”

He didn’t want to follow, more nervous now than he’d been any time it was merely guns and musclemen to fear. But Jim was watching with that gaze that might just burn through him (he’d have to do some tests on how solid he actually was) and Sherlock took the offered hand. Jim stepped forward and they ghosted through the door (definitely needed further research). The room they entered was not a London townhouse. It was more like an enormous tent, the walls a dull red canvas, the ceiling hung with bronze lanterns. The floor was bare stone covered with crazy overlapping rugs in every colour Sherlock could name, the original surface peeking through at random. The first room seemed to branch off into three different sections, and Sherlock could see that they branched off again like an endless maze.

The rooms were all equally crowded. It was dim but Sherlock could make out bohemian-looking types smoking from enormous hookahs; crooked men in pirate coats playing at cards; girls in long fur coats lounging over velvet couches. The entire place was as smoky as an opium den, with a ragtag collection of people in tattered, eclectic clothes and various amounts of grime on them. As they walked forward he spotted a woman in nothing but a silver coin belt dancing with an enormous white python, the snake coiling around her middle.

“Hell looks a lot like a circus.” He muttered.

Jim laughed. “I told you darling, this is the waystation. It’s my little pleasure palace. All the real torture and damnation is at the home office.”

Jim led him further into the tent. As they walked the revellers leaned out to touch him, heads bowed almost to the floor. He kicked them away ruthlessly, only stopping to cup one man’s face fondly for a moment. Sherlock saw something pass between them from Jim’s hand, a clear white light. He looked back as they walked on. The man seemed dazed, eyes dull and content.

“What was that?”

“My equivalent of a blessing. It numbs their aches somewhat.”

“Their aches?”

“Most people who end up in my hands feel the physical torment of their mistakes in life. It weighs them down, drives them mad.”

“I feel fine.”

“You’re new,” he flashed his teeth, “Plus you’re not really one for regret or self-reflection anyway, I doubt you’ll have to worry about it.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure if that should be comforting or not.

 

They passed through several more chambers until Sherlock had no idea where they were. Every room looked the same, every face had the same wretched expression. Finally Jim came to what looked like a dead end in the canvas and offered his hand again. Sherlock took it without hesitation, eager to get away. They stepped through the wall into a clean, airy apartment with a view of the Arc de Triomphe. The walls were a pastoral blue, the windows large and uncurtained, but there was nothing in the way of furniture or decoration.

“Welcome to Paris.”

“Handy.”

“I’m everywhere, Sherly. Right now there’s a man in Shanghai considering shooting his wife. He thinks she’s cheating on him.”

“Is she?”

“No. But…” Jim closed his eyes for a moment, opening them languorously, “He’s convinced now.”

“Is this how you spend your time? Stealing souls or spirits or whatever we are and keeping them for yourself?”

“It’s not about the numbers, Sherlock. I’m proving a point.” He crossed to lean a fist on the window.

“What point?”

“That there is no one without evil. That any man can choose to do wrong. It’s about the _choice_ , Sherly.”

The detective snorted. “Sounds like standard teen rebellion daddy issues to me. Did God take awake your TV privileges?”

He didn’t see the demon move but then Jim was right in his face, holding the man tipped back by just his throat. His eyes were completely red now, voice a deep growl.

“You have no idea how this began, Sherlock Holmes! You are not privy to the secrets of Heaven!”

Sherlock could barely speak but he had to try anyway. “Well it…looks like you’re…not anymore…either.”

Jim laughed and let go, dumping him flat on his back with a thud. It took a second for Sherlock to realise it actually hadn’t hurt. He lifted himself onto his elbows, watching Jim wave a hand and conjure a red satin loveseat out of nothing. He knew it was impossible to still think of the beast as Jim when he was clearly much more, but it was habit.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“It’s the city of romance, isn’t it? Much nicer to look at than London, anyway.”

“Is that what you expect from me?” Sherlock raised a brow, “A bedmate?”

Jim tipped his head back and sank onto the couch. “Bedmate? I don’t think I’ve heard that since the eighteenth century.”

“You said you wanted to own me, to control me, keep me. What do you want to keep me _for_?”

“For whatever I like, Sherly. Isn’t that sort of the point?”

The detective said nothing and Jim sighed, beckoning with his finger. “Come closer.”

He shuffled forward half a metre and Jim scowled. Sherlock didn’t want to sit at his feet, but he wasn’t getting on the couch either. He stood and moved until he was an arm’s length from the demon.

“I appreciate all human weakness, all darkness, but every once in a while there comes a person with a potential for chaos unmatched by anyone around him. Someone clever, manipulative, someone who even in life is already doing my work. Those people are my favourites, and I like to recruit them to my service.”

“You said you wanted me to be a demon.”

“Yes. Eventually I’d like to have you out there, creating great temptations and reaping in souls with all the creativity of that precocious brain. But for now I wanna have a little fun.”

“What kind of fun?”

Jim grinned up at him, eyes wild. “I want to reshape you, darlin’. I want to make you as terrible as you can be.”

 

Sherlock looked at the bright view of the avenue below for a moment before flicking back to Jim.

“What if I won’t obey?”

“Then I’ll probably get bored and palm you off to the lower levels. Believe me Sherly, you don’t want to disappoint me like that.”

“I thought you liked the challenge.”

“There’s a challenge and then there’s a frustration. I have enough on my plate without coddling you.”

He beckoned forward and Sherlock found himself unable to resist, limbs moving of their own accord until his face was almost pressed against Jim’s neck.

“Think of it this way, Sherlock. What else have you got? You’re stuck with me for the rest of time. You could make a fuss, fight me, deny me what I want. Or you could make the most of your predicament.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. He had a point. A large part of Sherlock wanted to hold onto his sense of who he was: a just man, a man John Watson would be proud of, a crusader for victims and the falsely accused. That part told him to stand true and never give Jim the satisfaction of winning, just to piss him off.

Another part said eternity was a long, long time. Sherlock was used to drawn-out grudges but none of his past enemies had the ability to inflict infinite pain or mental anguish. He was outmatched, powerless. And most of all, there was no one relying on him now. There was no one to be good for – Sherlock was well out of his old world.

Jim would make him do awful things. Things that would ruin good people, kill them, place them in the demon’s power to be used and punished wrongly. How could he agree to that?

How could he not? It was a choice, suffer himself or make others suffer. Jim ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip and Sherlock’s jaw twitched. He’d said he wasn’t an angel, right?

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Jim echoed sceptically.

“What else is there? Allowing myself to burn for people you’ll destroy anyway?”

“Humans are exceptionally feeble animals.”

“I was shunned for trying to help when I was alive; I don’t see why I should continue to bother now.”

Jim grinned like a kid at Christmas, and for a moment Sherlock could see how he might have been an angel once before the hard, wicked look returned. He patted the couch beside him.

“Let’s get started then. I’ve been waiting for you entirely too long.”

“How long?” Sherlock asked as he sat.

“I saw you when you were seven and a half, sticking bugs with pins. At first I tried to subtly nudge you towards my team-”

“The drugs?”

“Indeed. But that pesky brother of yours was so determined to keep you on the straight and narrow, and then you found the good doctor and it was almost a foregone conclusion. The two of you would have ended up in Sussex tending bees and being thoroughly innocent.” He shuddered.

“So you came as an adversary I couldn’t resist.”

He spread his arms. “Not the _most_ attractive face I’ve ever worn, but closer to the real me.”

“I think John called you the Devil once.” Sherlock chuckled under his breath.

“Well at least he got something right.”

 

Jim’s fingers twirled and Sherlock’s scarf uncoiled, falling to the floor. His coat shoved itself down his arms, flying over the arm of the couch.

“What, no dinner?” he said flatly.

“Honey, I’ve had twenty-odd years of foreplay.”

“I’m flattered I held your attention so long.”

“I’ve had plenty of time to learn patience.”

“I still have questions.”

“I’m sure you do,” Jim leaned in, hand lingering on Sherlock’s collar, “But there’s years enough for that.”

He snapped his hand and the rest of Sherlock’s clothes ripped out their own seams, drifting to the floor in pieces. The shock of being so unexpectedly, violently exposed made Sherlock flinch. He couldn’t decide if he’d be more or less comfortable if Jim also undressed – he didn’t know what that might reveal.

The former archangel slid across the couch until Sherlock was sandwiched between him and the arm. He raised a hand and gave the detective a smirk.

“Hold on, honey.”

“Hold on for what?”

The second Jim’s fingers brushed his shoulder Sherlock was wracked with waves of pleasure. He moaned as any sorrow or guilt or anger he’d been feeling since he jumped vanished. A white heat flowed under his skin and scorched his nerves, making him feel like he was dying all over again. Jim let go and his muscles rippled, panting hard, pupils completely blown.

“That didn’t happen…when we touched hands…before.” He wheezed out.

“I can turn it on and off, like everything else. Too much pure lust and you can go mad.”

Sherlock raised his brows in silent agreement. He was used to ignored his body’s wants, and he’d certainly never felt anything as powerful as that. He imagined it wouldn’t take more than a few touches to overwhelm him completely.

Jim’s hand cupped his jaw and Sherlock braced himself for more, but evidently Jim had switched it off because he didn’t feel anything but warm skin. The demon pressed their mouths together, his tongue nudging Sherlock’s lips. He parted them invitingly, hands hanging by his sides limply. Jim pulled away long enough to speak.

“You can touch, Sherly. It’s safe now.”

 

The truth was Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. He’d had some brief sexual experiences in his youth before deciding it was boring, and he certainly understood the theory, but this was very different. What role was he supposed to play? Should he submit and let Jim savour the victory, or should he be just as aggressive? Would that be seen as resistance? He quickly decided he didn’t care if it pissed Jim off, he wasn’t going to just sit there and offer up his body like a sacrificial lamb.

Sherlock wrapped his fingers in Jim’s coat and kissed back, flicking his tongue over the demon’s. He pressed their hips together, the friction making him gasp a little. He inadvertently bit Jim’s lip and the devil cooed.

“That’s it, Sherly.”

He broke their embrace, standing.

“Undress me.”

The detective got up and slid the coat off his shoulders, throwing it on the couch. The jacket followed, and then he walked back around to undo Jim’s cuffs. The demon watched him greedily as he popped open his shirt buttons one by one, hands slow and careful. As he reached up to remove it Jim caught his wrist.

“Don’t be startled.”

“Startled? By what?”

Jim shrugged the shirt off, and as it fell away two enormous black wings unfolded behind him. Sherlock stared in wonder at them, the feathers glossy and hypnotic in their hue.

“I couldn’t feel them through the clothes.” He said questioningly.

“You’re not supposed to. The clothing is part of my Jim costume.”

Sherlock tilted his head for side to side, clearly puzzling out whether the wings would be capable of flight. Jim cleared his throat.

“Questions later, remember?”

The other man blinked. “Right.”

He undid Jim’s belt, sinking to his knees to take off the shoes and socks. He reached up and undid the sleek grey trousers, hesitation returning as he dragged them down Jim’s legs. He wasn’t wearing underwear – of course, that would be too respectable for a demon – and Sherlock viewed the turgid shaft pointing at him with some alarm.

“Give it a kiss, precious.” Jim curled his lip.

 

Sherlock had never done _that_ before and it threw him for a moment. Jim snickered, running his fingers through the brunette’s hair.

“It’s not rocket science, darlin’.”

“I’d feel more comfortable if it was.” He grumbled.

Jim laughed. “You’ll figure it out.”

Sherlock pouted but wrapped one hand warily around Jim’s cock. It was thick, not too long but big enough to make him concerned for his jaw. He pressed the tip of his tongue to the head, glancing up at Jim to gauge his reaction. As soon as their eyes met the devil groaned.

“Don’t hold back, Sherly. Experiment.”

Oddly enough that bolstered his resolve a little. Sherlock had been in much more confusing situations, really. After all he himself had a penis, even if he tended to ignore it. He should be able to get this.

He closed his lips around Jim, sinking down as much as he could. It was only about three-quarters of the way but his hand covered the rest, and as he pulled back Sherlock sucked hard. Jim dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, eyes closing with a dreamy smile. Sherlock danced his tongue around the tip, noting that there was no trace of pre-cum. He felt around the base of the shaft and discovered he didn’t have a sac either. It would seem angel anatomy wasn’t geared towards actual reproduction, and once again his mind tunnelled off into all the things he wanted to learn about his new circumstances. He snuck a peek at Jim’s stomach, delighted that he didn’t have a belly button.

The rhythm was simple enough once he’d adjusted to the stretch, and Sherlock was free to focus on his hands. He gripped Jim’s hips at first to steady himself before moving one to his lower back, scratching at the soft flesh of his arse. Jim tipped his head back and Sherlock winced as the fingers in his hair grew sharper, nails pricking at his scalp. He stilled, not wanting to drive the nails in any further.

“Problem?” Jim huffed, eyes blazing.

“Nails.” He garbled out.

Jim’s smile curved up wickedly. “Oh Sherly, that’s the minor end of the scale. You have no idea what pain can be.”

He sunk his claws in deeper and tugged Sherlock’s head forward. He choked and spluttered as Jim fucked his mouth, paying no heed to the detective’s outraged murmuring. He got an unexpected answer to his question about breathing, because even though Jim was jamming himself right down Sherlock’s throat he never felt suffocated, just uncomfortable. He glared up at the devil and Jim gasped.

“There’s my little demon.”

His hands flexed hard, pressing against Sherlock’s skull until he thought it would be crushed and then Jim was coming with a feral roar that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His face completely changed for a moment, eyes red with burning yellow pupils, lips drawn back over black gums. When he finally released Sherlock and looked down again, it was with his normal Jim features.

“We’ll work on that, hmm?”

 

That wasn’t exactly what Sherlock wanted to hear but he knew there was no avoiding it. Jim offered his hand and Sherlock let him help because his knees were a touch stiff from the hard floor. As the demon lifted him into his arms he waved a long taloned hand, the claws still red with Sherlock’s blood. The pain of the cuts had already lessened; it seemed Sherlock only felt pain when Jim wanted him to. He watched as the loveseat morphed into a large, low square bed with no pillows or covers except a gold satin sheet on the mattress. It had a torch at each corner, the flame a flickering purple. It looked more like something that belonged in a temple than a bedroom.

Jim followed his gaze and kissed his neck, answering the unspoken thought. “We _are_ worshipping at Lust’s altar, after all.”

“Do the sins actually exist in a corporeal form?” Sherlock asked as the devil continued to nibble at his throat.

“No. They exist in everything and everyone – except my former brethren, of course.”

His voice was so bitter Sherlock felt a little sorry for him. “One could argue being ignorant of sin doesn’t make you as worthy as knowing sin and rejecting it anyway.”

Jim stopped, chin against Sherlock’s shoulder. “That only applies if you reject it, honey.”

He prodded Sherlock towards the bed and threw him on his back. There must have been something mystical about the torches because once he was inside the square the world outside ceased to exist. The air took on a misty violet quality and apart from the softness beneath him there were no walls, no ceiling, not even sky. Jim moved over his thighs, wings stretching out to brush the mattress. He ran his tongue up Sherlock’s chest and again he was struck by that devastating fire of pleasure that made his toes curl and his back arch. The pressure lessened and Sherlock clutched at Jim’s hair, limbs filled with urgency now. His cock was so hard it felt like it might snap off, and every inch of him cried out to be touched and taken. Nothing mattered anymore but the connection of their bodies.

The devil dragged his fingertips down Sherlock’s sides, the skin rippling under his touch. He spread the other man’s legs and knelt between them, one hand circling Sherlock’s prick as the other trailed downwards. Sherlock could have screamed at the first grip on his shaft, but it was so intense he actually couldn’t force the sound out. A finger slipped inside him and his muscles stiffened, but there was no pain, just a delicious fullness. Jim curled his finger and pressed against Sherlock’s prostate and the detective whimpered, hands batting uselessly at the demon’s shoulders.

“Do you want it, Sherly? Do you want to be mine?”

“Yes, yes, please yes.”

He grinned triumphantly. “Good choice.”

 

Jim’s finger moved away and Sherlock whined, but he replaced it with the tip of his cock and the other man settled back on the mattress. Jim pushed forward quickly, burying himself in the detective. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, feeling so stretched out he might burst, but it didn’t hurt despite the stress. The weight on his gland was unbearably good, the friction of his erection against Jim’s stomach teasingly soft. The demon rested Sherlock’s knees over his arms and pulled them tight, pure terrifying glee on his lips.

“My beautiful soul.”

“Yours, yours.” Sherlock nodded breathlessly, anxious for him to move.

Jim rolled his hips and Sherlock moaned, hands clenching in the sheets. He pushed forward again and the detective pushed back. Jim’s wings had closed around them so the light barely filtered through, yet he could make out the demon’s face perfectly. He looked more like Moriarty than ever, smirking sinisterly. Sherlock could have cried right then, totally at the creature’s mercy. Jim sped up, slamming his hips against Sherlock’s thighs over and over with a strength that would have shattered a living person. The thick corded tendons of his neck stood out in sharp relief as he pounded the waifish man into the mattress.

Sherlock felt something rising in him that was a combination of two conflicting emotions. Half of him was awed by the ferocity, the power of the demon above him. Some still human part felt a vast awe, not necessarily fearful but definitely stunned by the reality of this higher being. That part wanted to kneel at his feet and kiss whatever he wanted kissed.

The other part was a wild, stirring lust like Sherlock had never felt in his life. He wanted to tear pieces off Jim, to feast on his flesh, to force themselves together so hard their skin melted together. He wanted to rut like beasts and fiends that howled at the moon. That part won out.

Sherlock clung to Jim, teeth sinking into his shoulder as he encouraged the devil on faster and harder. He was yelling now, his usual mellow baritone a rasping shout. Jim’s voice had gone, replaced by savage grunts and rumbles. His eyes glistened as he licked a stripe up Sherlock’s cheek, hands fisted over his head. Jim pressed his stomach down against Sherlock’s prick and writhed, and with a scream the man fell over the edge.

The white of his climax was so blinding it made his ears ring, and it lasted so long he missed the moment Jim followed. By the time his vision had cleared and the static electricity faded from his muscles, the ex-angel was pulling loose and flopping onto his side.

 

Sherlock sat up. The torches had gone out and his head felt strangely clearer. The room around them as visible again, and when he looked at Jim he still had a sense of the same awe but the desire wasn’t there with it. Instead there was a sick sort of shame for the way he’d _begged_ to be taken. Sherlock ground his teeth at the memory.

“I always knew lust was a dangerous distraction.”

“Mmm,” Jim purred in agreement, “It’s like nothing else exists, isn’t it?”

He started to feel a bit awkward sitting there, body calmed back to normal while Satan sprawled out next to him. Sherlock’s mouth twitched. Maybe he should put his clothes back on.

A hand caught his waist and tugged him down.

“Shut up and go to sleep, Sherlock.”

“Demons sleep?”

“They don’t have to, but it’s pleasant. Sloth, you know.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked away. He didn’t really feel tired, but Jim was tracing a figure eight on his hip with a pointed nail and it was sort of soothing. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander.


	2. I Generally Avoid Temptation  - Unless I Can't Resist It

When he wakes it’s dark. Sherlock looked over to find Jim standing at the window, still naked, his wings unfurled as he watched the city lights below.

“Get dressed. We’re going out.”

“You shredded my clothes.”

Jim waved idly without turning around and a folded outfit appeared in Sherlock’s lap. He held up each item speculatively. It’s not that different from his usual clothing, a tailored suit with a fine collared shirt, but the black is so dark it blends into the night and the shirt is a red like dried blood. When he put them on they make him seem paler, and he was struck again by the clanging thought that he’s _dead_.

Jim turned away from the window and a moment later he’s in a scarlet three-piece suit with a white shirt and a bright blue pocket square, his wings tucked away wherever they live when he’s dressed. He looked Sherlock over with a nod of approval and waved him towards the door. They headed down a rambling spiral staircase and walked out into the street, instantly assaulted by the noise of cars and chatter and a warm summer breeze. Jim turned to his left and Sherlock followed closely. He expected more stares considering Jim’s outfit, but no one seemed to notice them at all.

“Can they see us?” he looked at a couple sitting outside a café.

“Not unless we want them to. It makes it easier to whisper wicked thoughts in their ears.” Jim winked.

“Where are we going?”

“One of the best places in the world to find sinners.”

Jim twisted through several small alleys before heading into a nightclub. The sign said _L’Aventure_ , the clientele lined up along the block. It was dark, the dance floor lit only by pulsating red lamps high above the dancers. The entire place was packed, people squeezed together against the bar. Sherlock could feel something, a sort of humming at the back of his mind.

“You feel it?” Jim whispered, but he heard it perfectly against the noise of the room.

“What is it?”

“Ssssssin,” he drags it out, “Lust, greed, gluttony, envy, wrath, vanity – they’re all here. Humans at their most human, competing for attention, eying each other like animals. You feel it as a solid thing.”

“Why are we here then? If there’s already so much sin, there’s not much point trying to tempt anyone.”

“I thought we’d start slow, since you’re so used to helping people. Here we can cause total chaos with a few well-aimed pushes.”

He headed into the crowd and Sherlock followed. They passed through the crush easily, people moving automatically. Jim stopped him by the bar, hand on his elbow.

“That guy in the striped shirt. Tell me what you’ve deduced.”

Sherlock followed his gaze to a young blonde man with the figure of a rugby player. He was glaring at a man further down the bar chatting to the bartender. She leaned over and laughed, pouring another drink.

“He’s with the bartender. He’s jealous. She doesn’t know he’s here – he came to surprise her. She’s flirting for tips but he thinks it’s more serious.”

“Very good. Now _listen_.”

“Listen?” he frowned.

“Just look at him and listen.”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips but stared at the man in the striped shirt. The rest of the club turned into soft white noise and a voice rang out, the French thick and guttural. Sherlock focused harder and it changed to English.

_She thinks she can just flash her tits at anyone…fucking slut, she’s probably doing half her customers when I’m not around. He’s not even good-looking, what a whore. Maybe she just likes his money. That must have been what she saw in Jacques. I should go down there and smash her teeth in, then we’ll see if any of these fuckers want her._

“She’s done it before.”

“Indeed. A minor indiscretion while they were technically on a break, but he’s never forgiven her. Men have a wonderful capability for jealousy when they feel emasculated, and he’s been unemployed for six months.”

“He wants to hurt her.” Sherlock looked at the girl again.

“Do you think he’ll do it?”

Sherlock listened again. The man was still cursing and glaring, but his angry ranting was the usual indignant posturing macho crap and Sherlock could sense something else underneath, the love he felt, the reason he’s taken her back after the first affair. His pride was wounded but he’d never actually retaliate.

“No. He loves her too much.”

“For the moment.”

Jim stepped closer to the man, leaning over his shoulder as he clenched his jaw.

“She doesn’t really want you, you know. She pities you. She thinks you’re pathetic. She laughs about you with her friends and wishes you would die so she could find a real man.”

His voice was so seductive, similar to Moriarty’s as his words rose and fell. Sherlock could see the man stiffen as he listened.

“She doesn’t deserve you. She’s making you look like a fool. She’s not the woman you loved, she’s a heartless tramp. She’s only with you out of habit.”

He was only repeating the man’s own thoughts back to him, but the tone was so convincing Sherlock could feel it like iron in his bones. He could hear Jim’s voice drowning out all other emotions, all rationality. It spread through the man’s brain like a stifling fog. The devil squeezed the man’s shoulders, eyes boring into his face.

“She should be punished. You should show her why she ought to respect you.”

The man finished his drink with a shaking hand and stood, Jim still holding his shoulders. Breathing through flared nostrils he shoved his way angrily down the bar, dragging the interloper off his stool.

“Pierre?” the bartender shouted.

He vaulted over the counter, backing her up against the far shelves. Some of the other staff headed towards them, one girl trying to get the bouncer’s attention. Pierre slapped her hard and she reeled, mouth open in shock and pain. He was screaming as he punched and kicked her. A male bartender grabbed him and Pierre swung, clocking him. Two men from the crowd jumped over and started grappling with him as the bouncer finally headed their way.

 

Jim watched the whole thing gleefully, eyes shining as the rescue attempt only added to the brawl. Pierre was wild with jealousy and grief, and everyone who tried to help just ended up drawn further into the fight. The crowd were shrieking and cheering, their interest adding to the tension in the room. Jim held out a hand.

“Come on.”

Sherlock took it and they walked through the solid wood of the bar, stepping over the girlfriend where she was huddled in the corner with a broken bottle in hand. As Jim passed he held out a hand and a yellowish light streamed out of her. As they got to the middle of the fight he inhaled deeply and trails of red rose off at least ten people around them, rushing into his nose.

“What is that?”

“I can feed off their emotions. Their anger, her fear, Molly’s sadness at the morgue. Of course the anger is a sin too so it gives me an extra kick, but any human feeling is like a spark. Try it.”

Sherlock inhaled and some of the red light was sucked in. It felt like breathing hot gas, but a second later his veins buzzed like a swarm of bees. He felt alive, energetic, like he could run forever or punch through a steel door.

“God.”

“I don’t appreciate the blasphemy, dear.”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “I thought you’d love it. It’s a sin like all the others.”

“But it’s a little different when God stops being an abstract human idea. I may not like the Lord, but I will not take his name in vain, and you’d be wise to do the same.”

“Alright.”

The fight was dying down now, cops running into the club to disperse it. Jim looked around.

“Time to change scene.”

“Where to? Another club?”

“How about I show you what I can really do?” his mouth twitched.

Sherlock smiled tightly. “You’re the boss.”

Jim took his hand and the world moved again. They were standing outside the same apartment, the door closed in front of them. Jim touched it and they walked into the tent world. The people there were still doing the exact same things they’d been doing when they’d first walked through. They looked at Sherlock curiously but avoided Jim’s eye as he passed. He turned a few corners and walked through the canvas and they were back in London.

“Why here?” Sherlock looked at him askance.

“Tying up some loose ends. Come on Sherly, I’ll show you the real finesse in being a demon.”

 

He moved them through space again, and when the ground settled they were standing in the middle of Scotland Yard. Sherlock could see Greg at his desk. There was a bottle of whiskey and a half-empty glass but he wasn’t drinking. His eyes were red and puffy, his hands clasped together against his mouth. Sherlock felt a sort of ache – he’d never given Lestrade much credit and yet the man looked like he was dead himself, crying over an ungrateful, selfish detective.

“As touching as that scene is, we’re not here for him.”

Sherlock frowned but Jim walked away and he followed. They went to the other end of the floor. The brunette raised his brows. Sergeant Donovan was kneeling in the interview room, boxes stacked along one wall. She was shuffling files, face tired and closed off.

“They’re re-examining all the cases you helped on.”

“Already?”

“The supervisor made it a top priority.”

Sherlock scowled at Sally. He knew she’d been responsible for his arrest. What she thought was doing her job was just jealousy, her fear of being inferior. He hadn’t liked her much when he was alive and he hated her now he was dead.

“She doesn’t even seem to care.” He said petulantly.

“She doesn’t. She thinks you’ve proved her right. But listen – do you hear it?”

_Good riddance, freak. I don’t see why Lestrade gives a toss, it’s not like they were friends. Still, I guess it would have been better if he hadn’t offed himself. I mean, the mess on the pavement…_

“Not terribly comforting.”

“But you caught it? That hint of guilt?”

“She didn’t sound guilty at all.”

“It’s there, you just have to sift through the denial. Shall we see if we can get it closer to the surface?”

Jim crouched by Sally as she straightened a pile of folders. His eyes scanned her for a moment angrily.

“You know this is your fault, right? You forced Sherlock out. You made him run. If you hadn’t insisted Lestrade arrest him, if you’d asked him to come down to the station and just explain, he would be safely locked in a cell right now.”

Her hands stopped, eyes distant.

 _No. No he was a fraud. He killed people, I know he did. He deserved what he got_.

“Was he a fraud? How did he know about you and Anderson if neither of you told him? You think he can see through walls?”

 _Maybe he saw me leaving Anderson’s place_.

“He didn’t, because you were so careful not to be seen. You hated him, didn’t you Sally? He made you feel stupid and small and you didn’t care if he was guilty or not so long as you got to take him down a few pegs.”

 _No. I’m a good cop. I caught the bad guy_.

“You had nothing but speculation and theories. There was no evidence he was ever involved in anything. You forced an innocent man to his death because you couldn’t handle the truth, that there might be someone better than you!”

She burst into tears, hands over her face.

_I didn’t, I didn’t, he was guilty, I know he was. I never wanted to hurt anyone, God, the look on Watson’s face, Lestrade, God I didn’t want this to happen-_

Jim stood with a huge smile as she snivelled and curled in on herself. Sherlock could hear it now, the guilt overriding everything else as she looked at her hands and saw his blood on them. He smirked.

“Shall we go find Anderson? I’m sure he’ll be even easier to crack.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “So long as I get a turn.”

*****

When they’d reduced Anderson to a weeping ball on his bedroom floor Jim chuckled and clasped his hands.

“Who’s next? What about a visit to dear Mycroft? Spilling all your secrets to Moriarty should be good enough to get a whole tantrum, maybe some smashing and wailing too.”

Sherlock’s lips tightened and Jim scowled.

“Aw, don’t want to torment your brother Sherly? You had no problem doing it when you were alive.”

“This isn’t Mycroft’s fault.”

“It’s as much his as it was Donovan’s or Anderson’s. They all followed my lead. They gave me what I needed to get you on that roof.”

“He’s my brother.”

“He _was_ your brother. The only person you belong to now is me.”

He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and the room spun and suddenly they were in Mycroft’s office. He was alone, the fire crackling, a grandfather clock ticking away the seconds loudly in the silence of the room. His jacket hung on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up and waistcoat open. He had _several_ bottles of Scotch on his desk, one tipped on its side in a puddle, one empty, one that he tipped into his glass as they watched. Mycroft raised it to his mouth unsteadily, spilling some on his shirt. Sherlock’s heart ached again and he wondered if this was what Jim had meant about the burden of your mistakes.

“Look at him Sherly! The stench of agony coming off him! This is fucking child’s play.”

Jim walked over and took a deep whiff, light pouring off Mycroft in dull grey waves. Sherlock walked to the edge of the desk and pressed a hand to Mycroft’s shoulder tentatively.

_I’ve failed you, Mummy. I couldn’t keep him safe. I am a worthless son. I have let the family down, Father. You told me to look after them and I couldn’t stop this._

“See? He’s an inch from jumping off a building himself.”

“Don’t.” Sherlock said.

“Why not? If he jumped you could speak to him again.” Jim grinned mercilessly.

“Please. If…if I make him lose control now, if I show you I can be detached, will you leave him alone after that?”

“He’ll be mine someday anyway, Sherly. He’s killed too many men for Queen and country. His intentions may be good but his soul is marked for me. I’m almost looking forward to it, actually. We could use someone with his methodical mind to keep an eye on things below.”

“Please. Let him come in his own time and I’ll get you your outburst.”

Jim looked him over. “Are you sure that’s kinder? This way he has to live with his guilt every day.”

“He’ll do that even when he’s dead, but at least on earth he can learn to manage that burden.”

“Fine. Show me what you’ve got, little demon, and I’ll leave the Ice Man alone.”

 

Sherlock clenched his jaw but took a sniff. Mycroft’s guilt felt like a sickness, dizzying and sad. He leaned in and Jim copied. Sherlock sighed.

“Could I have a moment, please?”

“Sorry.” He held up his hands, backing away to lean on the window.

Sherlock resettled himself and closed his eyes. He didn’t need to listen to Mycroft’s thoughts to know what he was thinking.

“Are you enjoying this, Mikey? You’re finally an only child again like you always wanted.”

“No,” his brother said aloud, voice trembling, “No I never wanted that.”

“Didn’t you? Not even when I was following you around, messing up your books, passing out in alleys?”

“No. God I’d give anything to take this back!”

“You can’t. You gave Moriarty what he needed to rip Sherlock away from the people who needed him, and for what? A few lives of strangers who will never make one third of the difference your little brother did?”

“I didn’t know…I didn’t mean to…I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You knew there was nothing harmless in Jim’s questions.”

“I never thought we’d let him go.”

“But you did. You grew a conscience at the wrong moment, Mikey.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And you didn’t even warn Sherlock about it. You could have arrested Kitty Reilly the second she threatened to print that article. I guess it’s only okay to abuse your power when it’s to kidnap Sherlock from his apartment or take John off the side of the street.”

“God, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, I should have done more, I should have been better!”

 

He was sobbing now, fat tears rolling down his cheeks unchecked. Sherlock glanced at Jim. The devil looked ecstatic, eyes hungry as he stared at Mycroft. He’d need to do more.

“You’ve thrown away the only thing that meant anything. That’s your legacy, Mikey. A corpse who did nothing but love you and a medal for honourable service to the Crown that you’ll never be able to show anyone.”

Mycroft snapped. Sherlock felt the shift coming, the rising cloud of rage and sorrow. He swept the bottles off the desk along with everything else, pens and lamps and notepads scattering over the floor. Mycroft stood quickly, chair falling with a crash. He tipped the heavy wooden table, staggering to the mantel. There was a large portrait of the young Queen there, as well as a few small framed photos of Mycroft at different important moments: his graduation from Oxford, a mission to India, his appointment to the Service. He stared at the glass for a moment before shoving them all aside.

_None of Sherlock, none of Mummy, none of anyone who mattered. I’ve got nothing left, no wife or children, just an office and a reputation for keeping things neat. Is that all I am? Is that all I can do, take things apart?_

He pulled the cushions off his armchairs and the books off his shelves, and as he raged the air filled with bright red light. It saturated Sherlock’s pores, as invigorating as it had been in Paris. Jim walked up behind him and wrapped an arm around his stomach.

“Isn’t it glorious?”

“Yes.”

His hand kneaded at Sherlock’s side as they watched Mycroft throwing things across the room angrily, smashing the walls with a firebrand. He flung that away too and fell to his knees hard, wrenching sobs from his throat at he clutched his own arms. Jim growled low and moved his hand down to cup Sherlock’s groin.

“Bend over the desk.”

“What, now?”

“What the fuck did I just say?” Jim glowered.

Sherlock cringed at the gleam in his eyes and hurried to obey. Jim tore his pants down and Sherlock could hear him wrestling with his own belt before he slammed into the other man with a gurgling sound of satisfaction. He began to saw in and out, the friction affecting Sherlock enough that he moaned.

He didn’t want this. From their position he was staring right at Mycroft weeping in the wreckage of his frenzy, his brother looking old and wrung out for the first time he could remember. Sherlock had done that. He had jumped instead of asking for help. He was just as much to blame as Mycroft.

But even if he despised himself, Jim’s movements felt too good to be ignored. Practicing his temptation on Anderson and then Mycroft had only made him more susceptible to sin himself. It wasn’t just the lust he enjoyed; he loved the depravity of it, of doing this while his brother cried, he loved the thought Mycroft had driven him into Jim’s arms and that if he knew what was happening four feet from him he’d probably jump into the fire right now. Sherlock closed his eyes at the thought and came hard, muscles squeezing Jim until he bellowed and bit Sherlock’s shoulder. It flared up in red, raw pain, followed by a thick scent of blood. Jim licked it off him and spun Sherlock, forcing his tongue between the other man’s lips so he could taste himself.

 

It was like normal blood, coppery and bitter, but there was a tinge of something…something like aniseed and sulphur.

“You taste that, Sherly? You’re starting to change.” He giggled.

Sherlock stole a glance back at Mycroft. The guilt was still there but he felt the satisfaction too – like he was two Sherlocks looking at the scene with different eyes.

“Shall we pay a visit to the good doctor? I’m sure he’ll be worth a good crying fit.”

Sherlock felt a rush of excitement at the thought of John. The man would be an emotional wreck. Who knows, if they pushed hard enough he might lose his mind and go on a spree – they might even be able to convince him to kill Donovan and Anderson.

But the part of Sherlock that still loved his friend shook his head. John was a good person. He’d never willingly help Jim mark his soul and damn the soldier to an eternity at the devil’s hands.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Not even for another shag as good as this?”

“No.”

“Awwww, Sherly loves Johnny! You think he’ll escape my clutches, Sherlock? John’s killed men before.”

“Because he had to, to save his comrades or to save me. He has never killed maliciously. He is a good person.”

“He still sins.”

“He couldn’t be one of yours. If minor sins counted Hell would be overflowing and Heaven would be empty.”

“Come on Sherly, humour me.”

He seized Sherlock and they swirled out of Mycroft’s office, landing in 221B. John was curled on the floor by his armchair, staring at Sherlock’s violin where it lay abandoned in his seat and sobbing. The flat was so full of sorrow it seemed to slow time, the air moving past stickily as Sherlock frowned. He could hear the despair in John’s thoughts, and the anger simmering underneath when they got close to Moriarty or Donovan or Mycroft.

“I told you I didn’t want to see this!”

Jim opened his mouth to say something and stopped. “Oh fuck it.”

Sherlock followed his gaze to a man standing by the kitchen doors. He had long white wings that gleamed with a pearly yellow light at the edges, his dress a simple white tunic. There was a sword strapped to his waist though, and his eyes were hard beneath soft red curls.

“He is not yours, Lucifer.”

“Sod off Adriel.”

“He is marked for our Heavenly Father, and I shall see he stays that way.”

Jim sighed huffily but folded his arms. “Carry on then.”

The angel knelt by John and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, whispering softly. Sherlock could see some of the tension leaving John’s frame and felt the anger dissipate, replaced only by grief. Jim scowled as Adriel stroked his arms.

“Why did you back off?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Angels and demons are not allowed to directly interfere in each other’s business.” He ground out between his teeth.

“So why doesn’t God just assign an angel to every human? Then you’d never get to tempt them.”

“Because humans are supposed to have free will. The man I tempted in Paris may be coaxed into forgiving his girl by an angel tomorrow, but the mark of his sin will stick. If you tempt people enough you can sway them so far they never redeem themselves. It helps that most people are naturally closer to sinner than saint in the first place.”

Adriel looked up at Sherlock and his jaw tensed. The detective could tell he wanted to say something but was bound by the rule that he couldn’t interfere. He took a small comfort knowing John was protected for now.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Fine by me.” Jim offered his hand. The room swam around them and then disappeared.

*****

Jim led him back into the tent world, his mood soured by his failure to reach John first. He’d been looking forward to a fabulous rampage. The drunks lying over his floors made him angrier and he kicked them aside, the others scrambling away warily. Everyone watched worriedly, aware their master was not going to be forgiving tonight. Sherlock followed him further into the maze until they reached a larger chamber with a throne raised above a pit full of pillows and sheets. One wall was lined with a long golden table covered in food and drink, enormously obese souls stuffing their faces. A band in the corner that were so malnourished they could have been skeletons played a long haunting dirge, their faces blank. Jim slunk over and collapsed into his chair. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do with himself, but Jim waved a hand and summoned a short backless seat next to him.

“Sherly?”

He sat, remarking that several of the other souls raised their brows when he did. Jim rolled out his shoulders, stretching his arms above his head. He twitched his fingers at a nearby soul and the woman hurriedly over with two thick pewter goblets and an amphora as long as her leg.

“My Lord.” She bowed.

“Just pour, Isabel.”

She was quick, handling the container like it weighed nothing before presenting a glass to Jim. He nodded to Sherlock and she poured for him too before scurrying back to the table. Sherlock sniffed suspiciously. It looked a little thick for his liking, and he couldn’t tell if the red colour was a reflection of the walls or the actual liquid.

“What is it?”

“It’s a concoction.”

“Concoction of what?”

“Wine, herbs, bit of virgin’s blood.”

Sherlock raised his brows and Jim rolled his eyes.

“The virgin gave willingly, Sherlock. Just drink it.”

He brought it to his lips hesitantly but the first taste was like a revelation. The mixture sank into his bones, making him feel blissful, his body heavy and slow. He drank eagerly, spilling it from the corner of his lips. Jim grinned and leaned forward to lick it off, teeth clicking together next to Sherlock’s ear.

“How do you feel, darlin’?”

“Like I’m made of water.” He answered in a mellow purr.

Do you feel like smiting a few souls?”

He shook his head lazily. “I’d rather kiss you.”

Jim grinned and licked his teeth. “I suppose that could be diverting.”

He leaned in and pressed their lips together, sucking the remnants of the wine from Sherlock’s tongue. He spilled his cup as he grabbed Jim, holding on tight as they kissed. The wine made every movement seem slower, as if their lips lingered in the air barely touching. Jim waved a hand at the band.

“Something faster, honey.”

They sped up as he dragged Sherlock out of his chair and pushed him into the pit of cushions. Sherlock laughed, falling all over again. Jim stripped off his suit and jumped in after him, pinning the detective by the wrists. He tore open his shirt with pointed teeth, trailing them over his chest in bright red welts. Sherlock moaned as Jim’s tongue swept over the scratches.

“Take me, Lucifer.” He whispered, not sure where the words came from.

“Oh Sherlock, I intend to.”

 

They fucked for what seemed like hours, the intoxication making his head too fuzzy to keep proper track, the pleasure repeating in echoes and shudders until Sherlock felt his spine might crack in two. Most of the room’s occupants had snuck away into the shadows when they started, respecting their master’s privacy but too drawn to the spectacle of such open lust to disappear completely. They crowded in the room’s entrances, afraid to cross the threshold but watching with jealous, wistful eyes. As Sherlock and Jim laid back in the cushions the devil beckoned and they crept forward. They curled around the pit, in pairs or groups or by themselves, balled up on the hard floor until the whole chamber was one mass of souls, their breaths quiet and soothing.

Sherlock already felt different to them – and not the way he’d felt separate to other people when he was alive. When he looked at the other souls they seemed to be missing something, a sharpness he could feel coiling in his stomach. Perhaps it was part of the change Jim had mentioned. He snuggled in closer to Jim’s possessive hand on his lower back and closed his eyes with a strange sense of peace.


	3. When the World Began, There Were No Such Things as Monsters

When he woke the tent world was already in full swing again, people sucking on cigars as they threw dice, women rubbing themselves against old gypsies with full beards and young boys with acne fresh on their faces. Jim was at the table picking through a bowl of currants and tossing them in the air, catching them idly. His eyes glinted when he spotted Sherlock.

“Morning, my sweet.”

“Good morning.”

“Ready for another lesson?”

“I suppose.”

Jim conjured him a new set of clothes, a tight white shirt and purple suit pants. The devil slipped back into the same red suit and Sherlock got the sense that it was his preferred outfit, but today he wielded a black cane as well.

“This way.”

He led Sherlock through a different section, ducking low-hanging canvas doors and sidestepping children moving tin soldiers in a fierce battle. Sherlock stopped when he saw them and Jim looked back to see why.

“Ah, admiring my little psychopaths?”

“Your what?”

“Well they would have been, if they’d had the chance. Their minds were full of dark intentions. The plague got them before they could act on any.”

“If they’re insane surely their thoughts can’t be counted as a sin.”

“Ask Him about it – I don’t make the rules.” Jim shrugged, strolling on.

They reached a very small room that was mostly empty, and Jim led Sherlock through the canvas. They walked out into a balmy night, stars thick in the sky. There was nothing in sight but jungle, the trees tall and curved. Jim started down the hill, heading for a spot where Sherlock could hear the ocean swishing against the shore.

“Where are we?”

“Hawai’i.”

“I’ve never been.”

“It’s beautiful. Always reminds me of the Garden.”

“The Garden?”

But Jim ignored him. “And the people are so gluttonous! I love to see good people throw themselves away on such an innocent sin.”

“I’m sure they manage to balance the scales somehow.”

“Sometimes.” He admitted.

 

They came to the bottom. A large building right by the water was lit up like a Christmas tree, the light ranging across the waves. Jim waved him ahead.

“Another bar?”

“This is an entirely different lesson, Sherly.”

He made a sceptical face but walked in. The clientele seemed nice enough, everyone sitting at their tables talking happily. There was none of the emotion he’d sensed at the club in Paris. People here weren’t looking for anything but good company, so there was no reason to be jealous or angry. Speakers pumped out a peaceful acoustic song and someone nearby laughed in a way that made Sherlock’s heart lift.

“What do you smell?”

Sherlock sniffed and from every person he was hit with a swell of joy that made his skin tingle. He grinned.

“Happiness.”

“Yep, they couldn’t be more pleasant. The perfect test subjects.”

“For what?”

Jim held up his cane and threw it in the air, the staff twirling and changing until it landed in his hand as a black violin and bow. He walked over to the CD player and motioned for Sherlock to take the instrument.

“You’re going to play.”

“Which song?”

“Think of the most hateful person you’ve ever met. The person you loathed more than anyone, the one who made your blood boil, the one you would have killed if you’d had the chance. Then play for them.”

He frowned but raised the violin to his chin. He nodded at Jim and the demon switched the music off.

There was half a second of confusion before Sherlock started. He attacked the strings with a rough fury that poured out as harsh notes and high squeaks. One by one the customers’ faces fell. They frowned and screwed up their mouths and shook their heads as if an annoying gnat was flying around their heads. A man nearby raised his voice at his date and she snapped back.

As he played on arguments broke out at every table. The owner yelled at one of the waitresses, the bouncer got into a scuffle with a man near the door, all across the room there was yelling and waving hands and cutting words. The atmosphere changed to one of bright red and Jim inhaled with a cocky smug look. A pair of guys by the toilets stood, ready to throw punches. Jim tapped his arm.

“Switch to someone you loved.”

This was harder but not impossible. Sherlock thought of Mummy and Mycroft and John (and was mildly surprised when Irene and Molly snuck in there too). Instantly the music changed to a low, soothing drone. The men about to fight both blinked as if waking from a trance. The room settled again, everyone silent as they listened. Then, slowly, a woman nearby climbed into her partner’s lap. He curled around her as they kissed, ignorant to everyone else. Table after table fell to it, people seeking out flesh and fingers and lips. The temperature of the room seemed higher, people grinding together in their chairs or leaning back against the table. One guy lifted his wife onto the bar and started undoing her pants.

“Should I stop?” Sherlock raised a brow.

“Oh no honey, I’m quite happy to watch a spontaneous orgy. It will be even better when you finish and they realise what they’ve done.”

 

So he carried on while everyone around them fell on each other like animals, fucking almost on top of other couples. The lust in the air was heady, feeding into Sherlock’s playing. The moans and grunts of the room added to his melody, ecstasy drawn out by his bow. Jim bit his lips and ran a hand over Sherlock’s ribs.

“You understand your talent?”

“I can tempt with music?”

“I thought it might work for you. Everyone has different skills but this seemed right up your alley – mass influence at once.”

Sherlock kept playing, eyes roaming over the exposed skin and open mouths. Jim smirked mischievously and sunk to his knees, unzipping Sherlock’s pants.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting caught up in the song.”

He drew Sherlock’s prick out and swirled his tongue over the head. Sherlock jerked and at least a dozen women squealed in response to the sudden chord. Jim worked him furiously, swallowing him down to the hilt, tongue flicking over the tip like it was forked (which it could have been, as far as he knew). The desire growing in Sherlock’s spine flowed into his playing and the room erupted into even more vigorous, noisy passion. Jim was flawlessly decadent, slurping obscenely, throwing great dark fuck-me eyes at the violinist, sucking and scraping jagged teeth just enough to give a thrill. Sherlock shuddered and came with a groan that was echoed all around them as the humans reached their completion. Jim tucked him away and stood, licking his lips clean. He walked to the wall and held up his hand. Sherlock stopped as he flicked the CD player back on.

It was like the entire room had been doused with ice water. People blinked, looking at each other as they gripped the situation. Then there was shrieking as women grabbed their clothes, hiding their face in embarrassment. More than a few yelled at their partners, demanding to know what was going on. The men in turn looked to the bartenders, accusing them of drugging the entire bar. Within moments it was pandemonium, everyone yelling over each other and scrambling for their clothes.

“Look at that, Sherly,” Jim grinned, “It’s a beautiful thing.”

*****

They spent the next week like that. Jim would take Sherlock somewhere and show him how to excite various emotions, overtly like they had with Mycroft and subtly, giving the barest hint and leaving it to fester for a few days before going back to reinforce it.

“Humans are quick to grasp onto suspicion or hope, Sherly,” Jim explained, “All you have to do is suggest an idea and their own minds will run with it.”

After they’d spent a few hours corrupting and teasing and sucking the moods out of other people, they’d return to the tent rooms. There they smoked or drank or took drugs Sherlock had never even heard of and then fucked in Jim’s throne room, always watched by those silent, hollow eyes.

The longer he was dead, the more pronounced the separation between his life and afterlife became. Sherlock figured it must be part of his transformation. The memories felt like they’d happened to someone else. He didn’t mind that so much but he was worried one day he’d forget them altogether.

He decided to ask Jim about it, waiting until they were reclining in the cushion pit feeding each other raw venison.

“Will I eventually forget I was ever Sherlock Holmes?”

Jim chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know if I want to forget that.”

“It would be easier if you did. You wouldn’t miss your old friends.”

“But I’d forget how we met.”

Jim grinned. “You won’t lose your memories. Things might get hazier, but if you turn your mind on them fully the clouds clear away. It’s just like your mind palace.”

Sherlock was still frowning though, and Jim sighed.

“Do you want me to show you?”

“Can you?”

“Of course. I’m the fucking Devil, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

He stood and offered his hand. Sherlock was so used to it by now he took it instantly. Jim closed his eyes, brow furrowing in thought. He jerked Sherlock’s hand.

“You have to close yours too.”

“Am I supposed to think something specific?”

“No, I’m the guide. Just close them.”

He felt like an idiot but did it anyway. Jim squeezed his hand again.

“Open.”

The tent room was gone. In its place were tall stone walls rising in many floors above them, reaching as far as Sherlock could see. The whole place was made from a sort of blue marble, a chill in the air that didn’t bother him so much as make the air deathly still and silent.

“Where are we?”

“This is my memory fortress.”

“Memory fortress?”

“Shut up, Mr Mind _Palace_.”

 

Sherlock smothered a giggle. “Fine. Is this how it works? I can find my old memories if I go to my version of this?”

“It’s even better than that, Sherly. Here, I’ll show you.”

He walked to a set of stairs and headed up two at a time, stopping in front of a black door that didn’t have any kind of number or sign. Jim opened it and waved Sherlock through.

They stepped directly into the lounge room at 221B. Sherlock looked at himself sitting in John’s chair facing Jim, the demon carving at an apple as past-Sherlock sipped his tea.

“This is after your trial.”

“That’s right. In here I can relive any memory as it happened.”

Past-Jim tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair and Sherlock scowled. Jim laughed.

“You’re not still sour about that are you?”

“It was a good trick.” He said begrudgingly.

“Come on, we’ll find something less personal.”

They walked out again and climbed another few flights. Jim picked a door seemingly at random and ushered the other man in. This was some kind of bomb shelter or bunker. Winston Churchill was leaning over a map talking to the Lord Chamberlain while Past-Jim hovered between them, studying the same map.

“You helped Churchill during the war?” Sherlock frowned.

“Goodness no! I was collecting information to give to Adolf.”

“Jesus, Jim. The man killed millions.”

“Blasphemy, Sherlock!”

He sighed and the shock passed. Of course Jim would care more about his cursing than the Holocaust.

“Why were you doing such mediocre grunt work anyway?”

“Because I took a special interest in the Axis, love. They were doing exciting things, evil on a scale as had never been seen before. It was thoroughly entertaining.”

“Fine. Can we visit a memory that doesn’t make me want to vomit?”

“Partypooper.”

But they filed out again. Jim climbed about ten floors this time, opening a door in the far corner. Sherlock looked out over a London in flames, people screaming in the street as the wooden houses burned.

“The Great Fire.”

“Who do you think lured that little baker’s boy into napping on the job? Sloth, honey. It’s a fabulously sneaky sin.”

 

Jim took him on a sort of highlights tour, slipping in and out of different centuries. Sherlock got the distinct feeling he was showing off since a lot of it was large-scale destruction or seriously cruel. They were wandering through Isabella of Spain’s chapel as she muttered dark curses against heretics, past-Jim whispering in her ear. Sherlock only just contained a snort at the sight of his puffy red tunic and hose before turning to the current Jim.

“Why would you encourage the burning of heretics? Seems more like a job for the angels.”

“They’re all about forgiveness, remember? Besides, stoking Isabella’s religious fervour got me not only some of the souls she burned but guaranteed me hers. It spread fear, and fearful people are more likely to make mistakes. It’s only the true believers that trust in God to help them unwaveringly.”

“Still seems like a lot of work for one particular soul.”

“Every soul counts, Sherly.”

He looked at the devil curiously. “Will you show me how you left Heaven?”

Jim’s face immediately darkened. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t care to relive it.”

“Do you regret it?”

Jim was quiet for so long Sherlock thought he wouldn’t answer. Instead he shrugged.

“No. I was right then and I am right now. I’ll never go back to blind obedience.”

Sherlock frowned, remembering something he’d learned as a child before he convinced his mother not to force him into Sunday church.

“You persuaded Eve to eat the fruit of the tree and took away her ignorance.”

“That’s right. Humans may have been pure and guileless once, but they were also mindless sheep. For fuck’s sake, you should have seen Adam and Eve before that! They walked around naked without so much as a single thought of anything but hugging. What a waste of good arse.”

“Is that what caused the rift between you and God? You thought he was keeping things from you?”

“I told you Sherly,” he said with a voice like steel, “I won’t go back there.”

He shrugged. “I just think it’s similar to who you were playing as Moriarty. The man who always needed to know more.”

“Maybe. I told you Moriarty was a character close to my own self. Close your eyes.”

Sherlock obeyed and when he opened them again he was back in the throne room. Jim looked a little drained and shuffled towards the table to drain a flagon, the wine spilling over his chest as he drank. Sherlock sat on his seat and closed his eyes. He figured it was just like going to his mind palace, so he focused on the familiar walls of it. When he opened his eyes he was in what looked like his normal mind palace but it didn’t have any of the same ornaments on the walls. Instead there were two floors and the same black doors Jim had, though his palace was made of a clean white limestone. He walked to a door at random and opened it, sticking his head in. Past-Mycroft was sitting on a bench doing his homework while past-Sherlock played on the grass. As Sherlock watched a bee swooped down and stung him. Past-Mycroft jumped up as his brother cried, hurrying to look.

”Here, let me see.”

He pulled the stinger out of Sherlock’s finger with his teeth and spat it away, lifting the boy in his arms.

“We’ll go inside and wash it out, hmm?”

The ache in Sherlock’s chest swelled again and he ran backwards, slamming the door behind him. Perhaps he didn’t need his memory palace after all.

*****

Sherlock rolled over to find Jim was already dressed and surrounded by kneeling souls. They whispered to him, faces slack and sad, hands held up as if they’d like to touch him but didn’t dare. He frowned and nodded, reaching out to stroke one girl’s face. She shuddered at the moment of white light that passed between them, kissing his hand as she hurried away. Jim shooed the others and they moaned but obeyed.

“I don’t understand why you do that. Aren’t they supposed to suffer?”

“It’s not like that, Sherly. I’m not His judge, jury and executioner. I take the bad souls because they don’t belong up there. I enjoy their misery, I delight in their pain, but I don’t need to torment them. They’re punished enough by their own thoughts.”

“Are we going out tonight?”

“You are. I’m expecting a report from below.”

Sherlock frowned. “I’m still going?”

“You think you can handle it by yourself? Just find a few to encourage, sow some sinful thoughts, cause a little havoc. I think you’ll have fun.”

He was dubious but he had been going out with Jim long enough to have a fair idea what he was doing. Sherlock stood.

“Alright. I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Good boy.”

He walked to the left, following the tunnel as he wondered where he should go. It didn’t matter really – there were people everywhere who’d respond to his efforts. He picked a random room and walked up to the canvas wall, reaching out carefully. He’d never done this without Jim but he found the spot that gave and stuck his arm through. The surface melted and he crossed into a noisy street. He’d say South America, at a guess. The houses were very colourful, the street crammed with tanned people rushing about on foot or bicycle. Sherlock wandered, an invisible tourist, immune to the heat he could feel coming off the dirt road. It was daytime, which meant he’d need to find a market or something with a lot of people. Night was always easier – people were more inclined to do their evil deeds in the dark.

He walked until he found a large open square. Women were washing their clothes in the fountain, children running around barefoot between the street vendors. He looked around, searching people’s thoughts for the trace of sin Jim had taught him to sniff out.

Sherlock picked up on a few petty jealousies between women at the fountain. He encouraged them with a simple touch of his hand, adding extra bitterness to their smiles. The children were pure, mischievous but wholly good underneath. They were being watched over by a stern-looking angel who glared but didn’t stop Sherlock working when he nodded and passed by his young charges.

 

He was halfway across the square when a sudden change in the air made him look up. At a house near the church, a man had walked onto the balcony. He was so dark Sherlock could see it around him like a black shadow, his face drawn in a sneer as he watched the people below. Sherlock felt immediately drawn to him. This man had to be marked for Jim; there was no possible way he could ever wash off that kind of sin. It was layered over him like armour, patches of anger and envy and greed cloaking him until it seemed like the light avoided his whole corner of the square.

Sherlock easily covered the distance between them, walking straight through the man’s front door and up the stairs. He passed a room with tables piled high with cash and bricks of cocaine, guns on the chairs nearby. There were two girls who both looked about fourteen asleep in his bed, their arms marked with needle pricks. Sherlock walked onto the balcony and leaned in, sensing the man’s thoughts. They were an angry swirl of vengeance and pride, and Sherlock couldn’t hold back a groan at the malevolent beauty of it.

Whatever had been left of the old Sherlock’s already skewed moral compass disappeared. He staggered as pain flared in his shoulders. Sherlock held up his hands as his nails grew long and sharp; he pressed a finger to his teeth as the canines extended. He felt more alive so close to this man. His soul was a vast abyss, condemned almost from birth. There was no need for Sherlock to tempt him into anything. He’d done it all. Sherlock could have probably convinced him to kill those girls in the bed or open fire on the crowd below, but it would have only gotten his sinner arrested and he’d rather have the man free to spread his violence and sorrow elsewhere.

He basked in the man’s darkness for another few minutes before walking back to the square. He wandered, making his small suggestions and pushes but he was distracted by the burn in his back. It wasn’t as bad now but it still hurt, and that wasn’t something he experienced much anymore. A tad worried something was wrong, he headed back to the waystation entrance and stepped through. He let his feet guide him back to Jim, missing the way the souls now rolled away from him with something that had ceased to be jealousy and was closer to fear.

When he walked into the throne room Jim was giving instructions to a small withered soul, but he stopped mid-sentence and spun his head to smile at Sherlock.

“Go.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

The creature disappeared and Jim stood, striding over to circle his detective. He reached out and inspected Sherlock’s nails, testing the points of his teeth.

“I haven’t quite figured out how to put them away again.”

“You only have to do it when you’re pretending to be human, and we haven’t covered that yet. I take it you found someone interesting?”

“He was the wickedest man I’d ever seen.”

“How are your shoulders?”

Sherlock frowned. “They’re tender.”

Jim nodded and started unbuttoning his shirt. He peeled it off and tossed it aside. Something twitched behind him and Jim grinned. He ran a hand down Sherlock’s spine and he shivered, almost falling over as black wings unfurled around him. He stared at the sleek feathers, flicking them gently.

“Look at that. You’re a real demon now, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

They weren’t as big as Jim’s, not so majestic. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t hold his weight but he gave an experimental flap anyway, getting used to the sensation. Jim chuckled childishly, tickling the place where they met his back again.

“ _Now_ you’re perfect.”

Sherlock looked at him and bit his lip, forgetting for a moment the fangs. He broke the skin, blood welling up. He licked it away, startled by the thick salty taste of it. Jim growled hungrily and leaned in to swipe it up, moaning appreciatively. The noise sent a jolt straight to Sherlock’s groin. He pawed at Jim, dragging a hand along his neck.

“Oh, feeling frisky are we?” the devil smiled.

He captured Sherlock’s lips, the two of them clashing in a biting kiss thanks to the still-present canines. Their blood combined on Sherlock’s tongue, the swirl making his knees weak. Jim’s blood tasted like old power and something he didn’t have, a sort of sweet honey flavour that made him think of music.

Jim snarled and dragged his own clothes off, wings spreading to match Sherlock’s. He clucked his tongue and seized the other man, springing off the ground. They soared to the top of the chamber, Sherlock letting Jim carry him. When they were high above the room Jim ripped away Sherlock’s pants and lifted his legs, wings flapping silently to hold them in place as Sherlock wrapped himself around the demon. Jim impaled him swiftly, turning in the air so Sherlock was astride him.

“You’ll have to steer, darlin’. I’m a little busy.”

He held on to Jim’s shoulders tightly, raising himself up the shaft.  Sherlock sank back down carefully, not wanting to knock the devil too hard in case it affected his balance. They both cried out at the slow, tantalising motion. Sherlock rocked his hips again, driving Jim further inside him. He threw back his head and hummed low in his throat as they came together, Jim pressing against his sensitive spots as he clutched at the demon, nails digging furrows in his chest. Sherlock leaned forward to lick up the trailing blood, eyes drifting shut at that taste of ancient good and evil.

Jim grabbed him by the hips, forcing him to speed up. Sherlock brought himself down harder and harder, the two of them tilting slightly, but Jim’s wings beat steadily and they stayed in the air as Sherlock writhed in his lap. He caught the ex-detective’s hand and sucked his fingers, tongue lashing over the palm as his teeth nipped at Sherlock’s wrist. He sucked in a deep breath, tipping himself forward until their lips met. As soon as his canines scratched Jim’s lips again Sherlock groaned, his movements much faster. He thrust like a mad thing, hair dishevelled around his face as he slammed himself against the dark angel. Jim laughed.

“That’s my boy. Come on lad, where’s the fury?”

Sherlock dug his nails into Jim’s neck and the demon growled, his own talons extending. He swiped Sherlock’s arms, teeth sinking into the skin above his collarbone. Sherlock stiffened and came with a shout that echoed through the chamber, a hoarse shriek like some kind of hunting bird. He stopped, breath hitching in surprise, but the sound had tipped Jim right to the brink as well. He pumped Sherlock by his hips, driving himself into the demon frantically. Jim tilted the other man forward and roared, cock twitching as his climax was wrung out of him.

 

Unfortunately, his body stilling meant his wings froze as well. The two plummeted to the chamber floor, landing on the stone so hard Jim’s body dented it. The noise drew several small, hunched attendants but when they saw the two naked winged men they hurried away again. Sherlock quickly made to climb off him but Jim grabbed him by the waist.

“Where are you going?”

“You just hit the ground from almost thirty feet.”

“I’ve fallen further than that, honey. Don’t you dare go anywhere.”

He gathered the other man to his chest, grinning wickedly.

“My little Sherlock. I’m so proud I could crow.”

The brunette chuckled against him. “Seems undignified.”

“I think in this case, it’s worth it.”


	4. Go to Heaven for the Climate, Hell for the Company

Sherlock spent his time on the surface alone now, treasuring both the break from Jim’s constant attentions and the new way he saw the world. Everywhere he walked he could see the angels and demons whispering to people, the ones marked for Heaven and those marked for Hell, the ones that couldn’t be swayed from their paths. He finally understood emotion, sensing the raw feeling even across busy streets. He could read a couple and see the intangible things that had always eluded him and seemed so simple to everyone else. And shockingly, it wasn’t as boring as he’d expected (but that might have been because he was feeding off them).

It was about three weeks after he’d gotten his wings when they were laying in the chalet that was Jim’s connection in the Himalayas. Jim trailed a hand over his stomach, nails scratching lightly, and made an annoyed noise.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to go downstairs soon.”

“Downstairs?” Sherlock frowned. “You mean the lower levels.”

“Yes. There’s a meeting of the important demons and I have to hand out praise like a good daddy.”

“Aren’t demons a little rough to care much for that sort of treatment?” he raised himself over Jim’s chest.

“A lot of them followed me from Paradise, Sherly. Their loyalty deserves a few rewards.”

“Do you personally recruit all your new demons?”

“No. The others bring me targets and I say yes or no. I only directly intervene when it’s a big job or a fascinating person.”

“Like me.”

“Indeed. The more morally ambiguous, the better.”

“How long will you be down there?”

“It’s a decent journey. A few days.”

Sherlock pouted and buried his face in Jim’s neck, nipping at the skin. Lucifer grinned.

“You know, you could always come.”

“What?” Sherlock sat up.

“Fancy a tour of the lower depths?”

“You said they were…unpleasant.”

“For souls,sure, but you’re a demon now. You’ll be fine. You can meet some of the others.”

“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“Nope. Lord and Master, remember?”

“Very well. I look forward to it.”

 

They set off the next day. Jim led Sherlock back through the darker, more twisted section of the canvas corridors. He came to a room with nothing but a thick iron trapdoor. There were no souls in here and the lanterns were much dimmer than the rest of the maze. Jim gestured and the trapdoor squeaked open to reveal a set of stone stairs.

“Go on, Sherly.”

He looked at Jim resentfully but started down the steps. The world opened up into a never-ending dull plain, the earth cracked and hard under a blistering sun. The sky was a cloudless blue, the wind blowing hot and fierce. Sherlock looked around as he reached the bottom. Figures with skin so transparent they looked like paper sculptures were lying prone on the ground, staring vacantly at the sky. As Jim stepped off the staircase it disappeared, leaving them in the middle of the desert.

“Who are these people?”

“The gluttons – the ones who went beyond ‘just a little obese’. Drug addicts, alcoholics, any addiction really.”

“And they’re starving.”

“Starving or jonesing with no hope of relief and no sweet, welcoming death, no distractions, nothing but their own minds.”

Sherlock shuddered. If he’d continued with his addictions he might have ended up here. Jim started off across the earth and he hurried to keep up. They walked for an hour without seeing any change in the landscape or the souls trapped in it, just a rolling arid horizon. Finally Jim stopped.

“Here we are.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“You can’t feel the dark?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and focused. There was something, a pull on his skin beneath them.

“I suppose…”

Jim clicked his fingers and the ground opened up, a ladder leading into what looked like pitch black. He started down first, Sherlock following carefully, groping his way down. As his foot touched the bottom the hole closed over, leaving them in absolute night.

“Jim?”

The devil held up his hand, hellfire flaring around it bright enough to see their way. Sherlock stuck close to him, almost treading on his heels as they negotiated the empty space.

They’d been walking for a while when Sherlock thought he saw the light slide over something to their left.

“Jim?”

“Yes dear?”

“What’s down here?”

“This is the home of the vain. All alone with themselves, no mirrors, no other people to reflect their good qualities back at them.”

“They never find each other?”

“There’s too much space between them. The new ones tend to crawl in circles for a while before giving up.”

As they continued on he saw it again and again, flashes as the light passed. The souls cringed away from the brightness after so long in the dark.

 

They walked until Sherlock thought maybe Jim was lost. It wouldn’t be hard to mix up your way, because apart from the odd soul Sherlock couldn’t see anything of their surrounds. Eventually they came to a large stone pillar, the black absorbing their light instead of reflecting it. Jim knocked on the rock three times and a door opened with a great crunching sound. It was only a small round chamber but he motioned Sherlock inside. With the two of them in there Sherlock couldn’t even move. The door shut and the floor beneath them quivered, slowly lowering them down the tube.

“Innovative.”

“The world’s first elevator.”

They dropped down into an ice-covered tundra, the circle coming to a jerking halt. The terrain here at least was varied, frosted peaks rising and falling around them. There was a path too, a winding track on the ice that seemed to glow a faint blue. Jim started down it and Sherlock tried to guess who resided here.

He got his answer about thirty seconds later. Below the ice beside the track a soul looked up at him, hands pressed to the frozen surface. There was another next to her, and one on the other side of the path too. As they walked along the souls lay trapped in rows upon rows, all silent and staring.

“The slothful?”

“Lazy in life, unable to move in death. Again, sloth’s not the worst sin but it can have its consequences. And it covers anyone who sees wrong and doesn’t try to stop it too.”

“There are a lot of people like that in the world.”

“Hence why this level is so crowded.”

This trek was much shorter than the last two, and Jim quickly came to a sort of spiral slide carved into the ice. Sherlock made a face.

“Childish.”

Jim grinned. “Fun.”

He slid down with a whoop, disappearing from sight. Sherlock sighed and climbed in, the tight turns disagreeing with his long body. He zipped out the other end into what looked like a sauna, steam rising around them. Jim offered him a hand up and he took it, gazing around. It wasn’t steam, it was smoke, a shifting veil that you could see through but only so far.

“Wrath?”

“Try again,” Jim squeezed his hand, “Now don’t let go.”

He clung on grimly as they waded through the fog. They’d only taken a few steps when he spotted a soul. She was gorgeous, blonde, long limbed and doe eyed. As soon as she saw Sherlock and Jim she ran at them, whining urgently. She only got about six feet forward when she hit something he couldn’t see, bashing her fists against the wall of smoke.

“Envy?”

“Nope.”

As they walked on it happened again. Every soul who saw them clambered over, only to strike some kind of invisible barrier. They all moaned incessantly, mewling and wriggling against the wall. Sherlock stared at the desperation in one man’s eyes and gaped.

“It’s lust.”

“Correct!”

“They can look but they can’t touch.”

“Can’t even touch themselves.”

Now he could see the signs in their gaze, in their hungry open mouths. These souls had almost ceased to look human, instead becoming wild and wanting and grasping. He was almost afraid of them.

 

This walk seemed to be as long as the others combined, and he wondered if that was because they were getting closer to the centre. Sherlock never got used to the lustful souls jumping out at them but he got better at hiding his surprise. He held Jim’s hand like a tether to sanity, his only chance if he didn’t want to get lost in that fog and go mad for lack of human warmth.

Finally they came to what was nothing more than a single rope running down through the mist into somewhere they couldn’t see. Jim slithered down hand over hand and Sherlock almost jumped in his haste to stay close. They landed in a world that was the exact opposite of the vain souls’ world. Here everything was bright light and mirrors, the effect dazzling. Voices echoed through the glassy prism-like maze. He could see souls curled up with their hands over their ears, eyes clenched shut as they wept quietly. He looked at Jim questioningly.

“The envious?”

“Very good. And how did you determine that?”

“Well the vain were shut off so they couldn’t see themselves. The envious are usually people who loathe themselves and wish they were someone else, so here they’re confronted with their own shortcomings with no escape.”

“The voices sound different to each soul, always someone they knew in life mocking them for being ungrateful and weak. That was the idea of a particularly clever demon.”

“Anyone I’d know?” Sherlock quipped.

“He’ll be at the meeting.”

The mirrors were disorientating at first but Sherlock found if he concentrated he could see a sort of pattern in the lights and the angles of the rooms. He pulled ahead of Jim slightly, carried away by the puzzle. When he reached a hole covered by a grate Sherlock whipped around victoriously.

“Hah!”

Jim curled his lips and grabbed the taller demon by his neck, kissing him roughly.

“I hope you always get this excited over the little things, Sherly.”

He lifted the grate and Sherlock peered own, frowning. All he could see was a black sort of vinyl surface.

“How do we get down?”

“We jump.”

Jim pressed his arms tight to his body and dropped through, landing easily on his feet. He looked up at Sherlock and waggled his brows.

“Déjà vu, sweetheart?”

“Something like that.”

“Come on, before you catch sight of that pretty face in a mirror and get lost in your own eyes.”

He rolled said eyes and let himself fall, stumbling slightly at the bottom. Jim caught him by the arm and grinned.

“Nothing to it.”

“I’ve noticed that.”

 

They were standing in a gargantuan warehouse. It was easily bigger than any structure Sherlock had ever seen. You could have fit two Empire State Buildings end to end in it, and it was so long he couldn’t see the walls. Over levels and levels and levels of machinery souls toiled at nothing, moving their arms mechanically but not producing anything. Everyone looked dirty and tired and faded, as if they had become just part of the production line. He could see souls who’d literally worked their fingers to the bone, the flesh hanging off in ribbons. Others were stooped so low under the weight of their imaginary packages their noses almost touched the ground.

“This one’s easy,” he wrinkled his brow, “Greed.”

“Good, then we don’t have to spend much time here. I hate this place.”

“Why this one?” Sherlock looked around. It wasn’t nice but it was better than the darkness with nothing to observe or the desert with no way to move.

“It’s so fucking clinical. The souls lose all spirit, all feeling. Without feeling they can barely think, and without thought there’s barely any fucking point them being here. They don’t understand they’re being punished anymore.”

Even though he’d said he wanted to get out in a hurry, the sheer size of the place meant it was hours before they even reached the concrete floor. Sherlock could feel a wave of heat coming from a row of massive furnaces, the air around them rippling like a mirage. Jim headed straight over and opened the nearest door.

“Come on.”

He stepped into the fire, out of sight. Sherlock pursed his lips but followed. The flames touched him but didn’t hurt. Once he’d made it to the other side the heat only got worse in fact. His brows shot up as he took in the scene before them.

It was the typical artist’s vision of Hell, all fire-and-brimstone, the rock floor dotted with great bubbling lava pits. Souls were strung up in chains, being whipped by cackling demons with their wings spread wide or cut with flaming knives or pierced like porcupines. Everywhere he looked was pain and screaming and thrashing souls.

“The wrathful, having all the agony they ever caused revisited on them. Now this is actually one of my favourite places.” Jim smiled dreamily, his pace slowing to a leisurely amble as he looked over the demons’ shoulders to admire their work. They bowed their heads reverently but carried on, not allowing their subjects a second’s respite.

Sherlock didn’t feel bad for these people. Of all the sinners trapped in Jim’s realm, these people were the ones who deserved it most. They’d committed violent acts, malicious killings, terrifying and sickening tortures. He’d spent his time as a detective hunting down criminals just like them. He strolled along with Jim, noting some of the more creative torments and feeling an overwhelming satisfaction in knowing that even when he hadn’t been able to catch a killer, they would inevitably end up down here.

 

Because they were taking their time this level took almost as long as the last one. Sherlock watched as a man’s skin was peeled off him with little more than the demon’s claws and made a small thoughtful noise.

“Comments?” Jim asked.

“Most of the other levels are designed to create a prison of the soul’s own making. It traps them somewhere with nothing but their own thoughts and constant reminders of their faults. This is much more physical, but I wonder if it’s as effective.”

“It doesn’t matter if they repent, Sherlock. The idea is that they receive all that they dealt out. I couldn’t give two fucks if they see the error of their ways.”

They reached a lava pit with dark black runes carved into the stone rim. Jim took his hand and stepped out onto the surface, the liquid somehow supporting his weight. Once they were in the centre he glanced up at Sherlock.

“I’d keep your eyes closed. They’ll grow back if the lava melts them but it’s not particularly enjoyable.”

Sherlock grimaced and clenched them shut as the magma slowly gave way, letting them sink like quicksand. The heat was great but not bothersome, and he was thankful once again that he seemed to be beyond corporeal pain now.

They sunk until he could feel it all over his skin, the fire warm against his lips, and then they were falling out the other side in a sort of squelch. He waited until Jim touched his face though before opening his eyes.

“Welcome to my kingdom.”

Sherlock had imagined towering jagged spires and morbid flat stone slabs, but this – this was nothing like that. The ground was a soft rolling grass, spotted with small patches of white round pebbles that looked like birds’ eggs. Tree grew under a pale soft sky, their leaves hanging low enough to brush the surface of the river that ran between them, its water so clear he could see the dips at the bottom. There were no animals or souls down here but everywhere he looked was some perfection of nature he could never have imagined.

“How can this exist?” he stared, mouth agape.

“Well after the apple incident God didn’t need the Garden anymore, so I, uh, appropriated it.”

“You moved a whole garden?”

“I’m the Devil, Sherly, I can perform miracles just as easily as the boys up there.”

“And He let you?”

“I told you, He didn’t need it anymore. Besides, how was he going to take it back?”

“It’s unbelievable.”

“Come on, I’ll show you to the main attraction.”

 

As they walked Jim pointed out his favourite spots, his favourite flowers, the bends of the river. He spoke with a smile totally unlike his usual spiteful look. He looked serene here. Sherlock realised Jim had never wanted to leave Paradise. He’d just been too awake to stay.

“Have you ever tried to talk to God?” he asked, “If He’s as forgiving as you say He might be willing to compromise.”

“I can’t go back, Sherlock. Even if He would take me it would mean giving up my demonic ways and becoming an archangel again. How could an angel live with the weight of thousands of years of debauchery, sadism and ruining the innocent for fun?”

“You could forgive yourself.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

They carried on in an awkward silence for a moment before his face perked up.

“Besides, if I went back to being a good boy I’d have to give you up, and I’m not interested in that.”

“I’m glad.”

They came to a section where the trees were so tall and their foliage so thick that they formed an almost solid wall. Jim stopped and ran a hand along Sherlock’s chest, the shirt disappearing when it touched it. The detective’s wings unfurled slightly and he frowned.

“Everyone will have theirs out. It’s a bit of a status thing.”

“Isn’t being here with you status enough? I’m brand new and I’m being taken to the feast of the year.”

“Don’t bleat at me, I didn’t make pride or envy sins.”

They walked on, turning right until the tree wall opened in an arch of woven branches. The clearing was a huge circle lined with a ring of wooden stools. At the far end was one large wrought-iron chair that had to be Jim’s. The other demons were already there, wings spread, eyes crimson as they turned to watch their lord enter. Sherlock could feel their gazes washing over him and held himself higher; he wasn’t any ordinary soul. He was a demon like the rest of them. He did notice that most of them wore black tunics that left their wings free though.

“You said shirtless was in?” he muttered to Jim.

The devil smirked. “Whoops! Maybe I just like to look at your chest, darlin’.”

Jim walked to his throne, Sherlock trailing after him. Jim conjured a new stool for his protégé and sat, waving for him to copy. He surveyed his demons for a moment before speaking, his voice unnaturally loud when he did.

“Welcome back, my loves. Have we all had a good season? Tell Daddy your stories.”

 

The demon to Jim’s left stood. He had a trimmed Van Dyke and shoulder-length hair, his nose long and imperious.

“My lord, I’ve been cultivating both the President of Argentina and his son. I expect a full coup within two months.”

“But how many souls, Machiavelli?”

“Not counting the father and son, there’s the soldiers and civilians, and then after the takeover there’ll be widespread sin as the regime asserts itself. I’d estimate another hundred thousand, easily.”

“Very nice. Next?”

“Are all the demons historical figures?” Sherlock leaned in as Machiavelli sat down.

“Some, because the brightest political minds or most notorious warriors tend to be big sinners. Some are from the times before, the ones who left with me. Most are just ordinary people like you who had a talent I could use.”

There were about a hundred demons there, and one by one they reported. Sometimes Jim would explain who someone was, sometimes Sherlock recognised them. He saw Lenin and an older gentleman with madness in his eyes who Jim said was Jack the Ripper. He saw Augustus Caesar, the noble tone of his speech still present after thousands of years. Brutus made a sad contrast, his head seemingly stuck pointed at the ground. Cain was there, and Jezebel and Salome like painted carousel horses. Sherlock was surprised to see Freud, but Jim shrugged.

“The man sees sex everywhere. He’s excellent at provoking lustful thoughts out of nothing.”

There was a blonde demon who looked about sixteen, her hair falling in impossible ringlets to her waist. Sherlock frowned.

“Who’s that?”

“Lucrezia Borgia. Most people think her brother was the real tyrant, but she had him right under her thumb.”

Most of them had petty manipulations to tell, similar to Machiavelli’s hundred thousand. Some demons had spent years struggling over one important soul, but as Jim was so fond of saying every soul counted. The only one with anything truly impressive to present was Ashmedai.

Sherlock knew enough Christian theology to know him as soon as he stood. Ashmedai looked the most evil of everyone there, including Jim. His tongue was forked, his brows a low, sinister ridge over coal-black and red eyes. His talons and canines were both extended, and with no shirt on Sherlock could see the rough scarified patterns all over his arms and torso. His wings were the closest in size to Jim’s, and Lucifer nodded his head respectfully when the demon began to speak.

“Master, I have one million new souls for you.”

There was an awed hush, but Jim himself didn’t seem surprised. He stood and moved forward to lay a hand on Ashmedai’s.

“You are truly my greatest soldier, friend.”

“I only hope to live in your image, dark prince.”

 

After the circle had finished Jim sat back contentedly.

“You’ve all done well, my children. Take your reward.”

With a flick of his hand the centre of the circle was piled high with food and drink, not to mention a healthy number of captive souls. The demons fell on it like rabid dogs, glutting themselves and gossiping. The only one who didn’t rush in was Ashmedai. He moved sedately, radiating such darkness the others instinctually moved aside to let him through.

“He’s magnificent.” Sherlock said quietly.

“He was an angel once. The others were human with human weakness, but Ashmedai is the perfect servant. He is loyal and selfless. He followed the Lord blindly and now he does the same for me.”

“I thought you hated ignorance.”

“He is not ignorant but he can’t help his nature.”

“Did he really get a million souls?”

“Ashmedai is old and powerful. He can turn a nun into a raving nymphomaniac with a whisper.”

“My God.”

“Sherlock, blasphemy!” Jim sung, “How about we mingle a little?”

Jim took his hand and led him to the middle of the circle, the pair helping themselves to food and wine as Jim struck up a conversation with a dark haired man and Napoleon. Sherlock caught the other demons watching him blatantly, staring at Jim’s hand in his. When he reached for more wine they moved away as they had for Jim and Ashmedai, though he noted a jealous spark in more than one pair of eyes. Jim tapped his hand and let go.

“I need a moment with Bonaparte, Sherly. Don’t wander off.”

He walked to his throne with the Frenchman, leaving Sherlock suddenly alone in the swirl of dark feathers and gluttony. He looked around for someone worth talking to and found most of the demons had pulled away.

 

“They are afraid to be seen with you.”

He looked over his shoulder at the ancient demon as Ashmedai refilled his cup.

“Why?”

“Because they do not want Lucifer to think they are trying to steal you.”

“He brought me here to meet them.”

“It will not stop him becoming jealous if you seemed drawn to another of our kind. The Master’s favourites are for him alone.”

“Favourites,” Sherlock stuck out his lip, “Then there are others?”

“ _Were_ others. Some he tires of quickly, some are still graced with his affection if they prove to be good demons, but they never last more than a century.”

Sherlock couldn’t comprehend a day when his life wouldn’t be full of Jim. They’d been welded together for years, even before he knew Moriarty’s name. But part of him knew it was inevitable an eternally bored creature would find new toys to play with; Sherlock couldn’t entertain him forever.

“What do they do when they lose his favour?”

“They become us. They cultivate the souls that interest them. Some-” he pointed to a young arrogant looking man with blonde curls, “Lose interest in Lucifer as soon as his mysteries are explained. Some never cease trying to win their way back into his bed.”

This time he pointed to a woman with the most desperate eyes Sherlock had ever seen. She looked more wretched than half the souls upstairs, her hair a wild tangle. She was sipping from a cup but her gaze was fixed unceasingly on Jim across the circle, her empty hand clenching and unclenching at her side.

“And you?”

“What about me?” Ashmedai smiled wryly.

“Were you a favourite?”

The former angel took a long time to answer, eyes on Jim when he did. “We were brothers.”

He walked away before Sherlock could reply. Someone tapped his shoulder and Sherlock looked down into a very short demon’s smiling face.

“Bonjour! I am Count Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Always good to see new brethren!”

“Likewise.”

“Come, let me introduce you to some of the others.”

“I thought I was a sort of pariah?”

“Oh so long as you’re in a group it’s fine. Just don’t let anyone get you alone – especially Serena,” he whispered, looking at the desperate woman, “She’ll try to scratch your eyes out.”

 

By the time Jim was done with his private counsels Sherlock was well-immersed in a group of demons, actually enjoying himself. He’d never met a more varied company, all ages, all races, all social classes and lives ranging from antiquity to the present. Everyone had new things to say, even if their ability to talk was being seriously hampered by the flowing amphorae. Jim squeezed his way in behind Sherlock, arms wrapping around his waist.

“Having fun, honey?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Good! Shall we take a little break?”

Jim led him away by the hand, smirking as they retreated to a shaded glen away from the firelight and drunken shouts. The feast was steadily devolving into a full bacchanalia. The demons were very drunk, pawing at each other or the souls, cackling, forcing the condemned to jump through the flames for fun. Jim’s eyes were bright with pride.

“Look at all my children, Sherlock. Look at all the wonder I’ve taken from Him.”

He mouthed at Sherlock’s neck, hands sweeping lower to the brunette’s groin. Sherlock responded with a moan and thrust forward, wings shaking as Jim licked a stripe up his neck.

As the Devil lowered him to the grass and took him in the garden that used to be Eden, surrounded by the screams of demons who used to be good, Sherlock began to think about finding his own favourite.


	5. To Live Alone is the Fate of All Great Souls

He decided to start with London. It was the place Sherlock knew best and he had a fair idea where the most creative sinners would be found. On one of his excursions he headed for the Mayfair exit and walked out into the familiar grey rain with a smile. He could tell that even if he lived another five hundred years, London would always be home. The Garden just wasn’t the same as those concrete and brick streets with their gloomy souls.

It was the first time he’d gone back without Jim, and it was different. He could see the blackness in people as he passed, could smell the emotion on the Tube. He spent hours just drifting, taking in his city with new senses. He was walking by the river when Sherlock came to Vauxhall and stopped. A part of him, a part that felt guilty for even thinking it, wanted to go in and see Mycroft - just to check how he was doing. Jim would probably see it as weak human sentiment, but Sherlock was only very newly dead and he still had people on Earth that had mattered once. He turned his steps towards the government office, head down like a bad child.

His brother was at his desk as usual, completely bogged down in paperwork. It had to be by choice – Mycroft had always been too efficient for work to pile up. He must have been using it to ignore Sherlock’s loss. The demon hovered by his brother and listened.

_Got to get this to Max by 4…tell Anthea to bring the car by 6. No, this won’t work, he’s going to be in Crete then-_

He listened harder.

_Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault-_

The guilt was still there, just buried so deep even Mycroft couldn’t hear it. Sherlock felt a pang of regret. He’d helped cause that. But it was at least partly true, and if his brother was able to carry on as normal he couldn’t feel too bad.

 

Energised from his brief visit, Sherlock thought he might as well stop by and see everyone else one last time. He went to Scotland Yard next. Greg wasn’t at his old desk; he’d been demoted and he looked thoroughly bored, his thoughts tired but not about Sherlock. Anderson and Donovan were both there too and he took a second to touch their shoulders and pour a little more venom in. Maybe he’d stop by their offices more often; if he kept it up he’d be able to drive them mad with self-loathing and doubt within six months.

Mrs Hudson was zoned out in her armchair with a cup of cold tea, her herbal soother wiping her mind of anything interesting. He left her be, not particularly challenged by corrupting the old woman. He went upstairs instead, John’s angel looking up as he entered the room.

“Oh. It’s you again.”

“I’m not here to interfere.”

The ex-soldier looked a little better. He still had a sorrowful empty stare, but he was dressed and he looked healthy, like he’d been eating and sleeping. Sherlock nodded. That was enough for him.

 

He approached the hospital with trepidation. He scuffed his shoe against the place his head had shattered. You couldn’t tell anymore with the concrete washed clean, but Sherlock knew. Feeling a bit melancholy he headed for the morgue. But instead of Molly there was a young man who looked like some kind of raver, his ears full of metal. Sherlock frowned and checked the shift roster. Her name had been erased.

He’d never been to Molly’s flat but her address was in the hospital’s system. He took a cab there, the driver quite unaware he had an extra passenger. Sherlock walked through the locked front door and up the stairs. He repeated the trick on her door and walked into the untidy lounge room. He walked from room to room, brows raising higher at the mess on every surface. Molly would never have lived like this when he knew her.

She was wrapped in her blankets, staring blankly at the wall with tears dried on her face. He hovered by the bed for a moment before sitting on the edge, tuning his thoughts to hers.

 _I must have fucked it up. Sherlock was so clever, he knew exactly what to do. It must have been my fault. I made a mistake and it killed him. I should have told someone, John, Greg, anyone what he was going to do. I didn’t count enough, not in the end_.

Her sad quiet blame hurt him more than Mycroft’s raging despair or John’s slack grief. This had not been Molly at all. She’d done everything he’d ever asked and now he could see it destroying her. He searched her mind for the reason she wasn’t at the hospital and saw hands shaking as they held the scalpel; heard the screams as she collapsed again. She’d had a nervous breakdown. Even as a demon he knew she didn’t deserve that. She was a soul who belonged upstairs - Sherlock was just keeping the balance. At least that’s what he told himself as he leaned down and touched her shoulder.

 

“Molly? Molly, you’ve got to pray. You’ve got to ask God to send you an angel.”

_Why would I do that? People like me don’t get angels. I should pray for a devil to take me away instead. I should be punished._

“No. No, ask for an angel. Ask, Molly!”

 _Oh please, yes, I want it! I want someone to help me, to say this wasn’t my fault. I want someone to make me forget_.

“Say it! Ask Him.”

 _Please, please God, help me, please_.

A light bloomed in the corner of the room, a spiral of wind and warmth that made Sherlock lean in like a flower chasing the sun. He could see why Jim would miss Heaven; if Paradise felt like that he would never have left voluntarily. The angel frowned to see him sitting there.

“Apologies. I thought she was unclaimed.”

“She is. She needs you.”

God’s servant looked stunned before immediately switching to suspicious. “What is your game, demon?”

“She’s not meant to be ours. You need to make sure it stays that way.”

The angel looked Molly over and read the same things Sherlock had, the goodness, the fear. He nodded.

“I will stay with her.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock lingered long enough to see the angel embrace Molly and notice the shudder that went through her before he walked away, confident he’d never see her again.

*****

Sherlock wanted a favourite with the same sort of qualities Jim had seen in him: intellect, creativity, a weak or absent sense of morality and enough personality to be interesting. Good looks wouldn’t hurt either, if Sherlock was going to be spending the next few centuries with this person and quite likely taking them to bed when Jim moved on to his new distraction. He decided to try the various labs at the Marylebone medical clinics, thinking he might find someone whose interest in bodies went a bit further than it should.

Harley Street and its surrounds were rife with scents of grief, fear and sickness. It was intoxicating. The labs were generally hidden away, either in expensively refurbished basements or airy second storey loft spaces. Sherlock wandered into the first clinic, making his way upstairs. There were two lab techs, a middle-aged ginger man and a woman of about thirty. He peered into them as they worked quietly. Nothing – he was lazy and she was an adulterer, but other than that they were good people. He didn’t even bother to see if they could be tempted, just headed back downstairs.

He didn’t need people he could corrupt. Anyone could be corrupted with the right motivation – he needed someone with the natural urge to be bad, someone who would be an asset as a demon, who would take to it readily. But every lab was full of do-gooders, people who wanted to help the sick, even just people in it for the money but not the right people for him. He went through the entire district but there wasn’t anyone he’d class as evil except one or two of the patients, and they were all dull and frightened. This required more thought. Where could he find brilliant scientists with no attachment to their subjects?

 

Sherlock looked up at the Clinical Trials Unit with an absurdly wicked grin. Already he could see half the people streaming in and out had dark patches on their souls, their sins mainly focused on greed and violence. There were still the doctors out to save the world too, but they weren’t the majority. This was the place for those who liked to test reactions and experiment within the bounds of the law. If he was lucky, he might find someone who’d step outside them.

Sherlock let himself in behind a group of drug company execs and made his way straight up to the labs. He wandered from room to room, smile growing with each new soul. There were technicians ruthlessly injecting rats with cancerous cells, doctors taking blood from themselves to put into trials, even a woman dissecting a chimp’s brain while he was still alive. She intrigued him for a moment before he read her thoughts and found her to be clever but very, very humourless.

He walked back into the hall and immediately stopped. There was a black aura spilling into the corridor under a closed door about ten feet away. The blind had been pulled down over the window but light flickered around the edges, white and scattered like a strobe. Sherlock stepped into the lab and gasped.

A young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-three was standing in the middle of a room completely lined with black felt curtains. The equipment and benches had been pushed to the edges of the space, and he stood alone in the middle directly under a projector that was running on all four walls at one, throwing up flashing scenes of faces. All kinds of faces, all kinds of people, all of them horribly disfigured. Sherlock stared in wonder at the pictures that changed so rapidly you couldn’t focus on any one for more than a second. A stereo in the corner was playing nothing but static, the white noise enough to drown out everything but the hum of the projector.

He walked over to get a better look at the man’s face. He was gorgeous, dark chestnut hair in messy waves around his face, thin lips under a cute button nose. His eyes were very green and very wide as he stared at the walls with an avid, slightly manic grin. Sherlock could see the darkness that filled him from his core to the tips of his fingers. It was brutal, enough to give him a chill of what might have been desire. He reached out a hand and placed it on the man’s shoulder.

 _Body showing standard fear responses at the sight of injuries, but brain quite disconnected. Psychopathic tendencies, lack of empathy for others – or are the pictures too detached? Strangers. Yet even children do not evoke a shocked or saddened response_.

The projector clicked off and he blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes as he went to turn the lights back on.

 _The photos didn’t have the same physical attraction as the real thing, but they were intriguing. The mere suggestion of blood is enough and yet there’s a need to study more, to look longer instead of away_.

Sherlock stuck his tongue against his canine. Oh yes, he’d do nicely. He could feel the obsession coursing through the man’s brain, could tell this is not what he was supposed to be doing with his lab time from the weak underlying wary thoughts. He was studying himself, but he didn’t seem upset or disgusted. He was a pure sort of scientist, removed but enthusiastic. One push and he might run out and slaughter half of London. Sherlock wanted to delve into his mind and find the source of these urges but he decided to hold off. It might be more fun getting the man to tell the story himself. He smiled to himself and drifted back into the hallway. The sign on the door said Dr Charles Haywood.

“Well Charlie, I’ll be seeing you again.”

*****

Jim was in his throne room when Sherlock came in, talking to a demon who had two souls by the scruff of their necks. When he saw the ex-detective he grinned and patted his knee.

“Come say hello, Sherly.”

He obediently climbed into Jim’s lap, the other demon drawing back as the two men kissed. Jim sniffed deeply as they broke apart.

“Where have you been? You smell delicious.”

“Harley Street.”

“Ah, yes. That would do it. Diego, take them to the fourth level.” He waved a hand dismissively.

The other demon dragged his catches away and Sherlock uncurled against Jim a little more.

“I was looking for someone special.”

“Oh?”

“I am not a fool, Lucifer. You and I have an affinity now, but once I’ve learned everything you have to teach me and I’m not always around you will find someone new to occupy yourself with. You’ll get bored.”

“Oh Sherly, you’re one of the best finds I’ve had in years! If you’re as good at chasing souls as you were at chasing criminals, I’m sure your antics will keep me entertained for at least a dozen decades.”

“Familiarity breeds tedium. Eventually you will be sick to death of me.”

Jim shrugged. “I can’t stop eternity being so bloody long.”

“So I have an idea.”

“Do go on.”

“The problem with keeping your attention seems to be a question of gluttony.  You devote yourself to one person for years at a time, and you wear yourself out.”

“So?”

“How about spreading your interests equally?”

“Equally?”

“Three heads are better than two. You can play twice as many games.” Sherlock’s lips twitched.

“Who did you find?” Jim almost whispered it, grinning madly.

“His name is Charles Haywood, and he’s no average monster.”

 

Jim bit his lip, leaning back with his hand still comfortably splayed over Sherlock’s arse.

“And you think we could share?”

“I know we could. He’s breathtaking, Jim.”

“I want to know more.”

“He’s a new Jack the Ripper, sadistic and unrestrained but without the insanity and carelessness.”

“I like a good serial killer but does he have the brains to keep up with us?”

“Teach me to pass as a human and I’ll find out.”

The devil smirked. “I like this idea already. I knew you were going to be a great man, Sherlock.”

Jim kissed him again, claws extending to dig into Sherlock’s back. The demon returned it with just as much ardour, high on his discovery and Jim’s praise. He slithered backwards off Satan’s lap and knelt between his legs, leaning forward to unzip the scarlet suit pants.

“So tell me the trick of it.”

“It’s all willpower, really,” Jim paused as Sherlock drew out his length, “You’ll have a body per se but no more corporeal than it is now. You touch what you want to touch and pass through what you want to pass through. No pain, no death.”

“And making other people see you?”

“That’s harder.” Jim hissed as Sherlock lowered his lips to the straining head of his cock.

“Well go on.” He said before swirling his tongue along the slit.

“You need to ground yourself in someone living. You need a physical presence in their plane.”

“Yours was Moran?”

“Exactly. He – ah – he was a killer through and through, soul like tar. I used him as my link to the real world.”

Sherlock sank down to the hilt, drawing back up slowly. “So I need to find someone evil?”

“Not hard. Prisons are full of them. As long as they stay alive you’ll be seen and heard. Ah, Sherly!”

He bobbed quickly for only a second before pulling away again. “Will you help me?”

“Of course. Just – oh – just get on with it!”

*****

Charles Haywood swept the fringe out of his face and bent over his official test results. He’d rather be trying the projector again at a lower speed, but his supervisor was hanging around a bit too much and he needed something to show for his lab time. He was relieved when someone knocked.

“Come in!”

The door opened on two men. One was average height, dark short hair, with the blackest eyes he’d ever seen behind a pair of thick glasses. The other was tall and slender, with cheekbones that made him smother a gasp and blonde hair in tight curls against his scalp. Both wore lab coats.

“Dr Haywood?” the shorter man said.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“I’m Dr Rosenthal, this is Eliot Rusco my assistant. I’ve been asked to lend him to you for a few weeks.”

“Why?” Charles frowned, “I mean no offence but I don’t need an assistant.”

“I’ll still be primarily helping Dr Rosenthal, but some of the higher-ups thought your research could be expanded if you had an extra pair of hands.”

The deep, rolling sound of his voice was entrancing. Charles couldn’t help looking at said hands and imagining what he’d like to do to them. Pull out the bones, perhaps.

 

Jim was practically cooing. Sherlock had been so good when he found this boy! The young man was staring at them both with a hint of professional confusion, but underneath his thoughts endlessly churned with images of carnage and slaughter. He hadn’t done anything with humans yet, but Jim knew under Sherlock’s wing he’d be killing hookers by the end of the fortnight.

“Well I’ll leave you to it then.” He smiled, looking at the tall blond.

Sherlock nodded, grin too big for the situation they were supposed to be playing. “I’ll speak to you later.”

Jim let himself out and Sherlock turned to Charles with a half-smile.

“Sorry to impose on you like this-”

“Oh no, it’s fine. I understand how the supervisors are when they get these notions.”

“Makes you just want to strangle them sometimes, doesn’t it?” he joked.

Charles’ thoughts whirred to the forefront of his mind for only a second before he pushed them away again.

“Yeah, I guess. Shall we get started then?”


	6. A Brother is Born For Adversity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter takes things in a different direction. If you were entirely happy with the story to this point, you can totally stop reading. This is more of a final conclusion, a rounding out of the inevitable.

Lucifer only discovered Sherlock because he noticed Mycroft first. The elder Holmes was going through a fit of teen rebellion, a penchant for cigarettes and boys in leather jackets who smoked them. The Devil could see he was clever, that he wasn’t above getting his hands dirty to make people do what he wanted. He was an ideal future demon in fact – but then Lucifer spotted Sherlock and all thoughts of Mycroft were pushed aside.

He reencountered him again as Jim Moriarty, delighting in the chance to see the Ice Man in action while he set his brother up. Mycroft had achieved some of the greatness Jim predicted but he was a little too proper, a little too restrained. Satan sucked out information about Sherlock he already had and moved on with the game.

But as he stood over Mycroft’s bed, Jim couldn’t help seeing that fresh-faced teen again in the crumpled old man before him.

“Oh Mikey. We could have had such fun if you weren’t so old-fashioned. Never mind – we’ll make up for it now.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs as Mycroft took another rattling, wheezy breath. He raised his hands to his chest, eyes shut in a restless sleep. The doctor – whose usual patient was illustrious, to say the least – checked Mycroft’s pulse. Jim read his thoughts with a glance.

 _Not long now_.

He didn’t need the doctor to know that. Mycroft’s soul was visibly pulling away from his skin with each cough, the edges more distinct. Jim checked the clock on the mantel. He didn’t normally oversee soul collections personally but this one was special.

Mycroft suddenly sat up, coughing violently, wheezing for breath that wouldn’t come. The doctor rushed forward to support him but it was the final gasp of his heart and the former statesman shuddered and fell back against the pillows, eyes wide and unseeing.

“Goody!” Jim clapped his hands, “Now the real fun starts.”

It was five minutes before Mycroft’s soul sat up. It looked substantially younger than his withered body, about thirty perhaps – he was heavier than he’d been as a teen but not as paunchy as the last time Jim saw him. He blinked at the doctor and then the corpse beneath him. Jim always preferred the souls who knew the end was coming; they were so much easier to deal with. He waited until Mycroft had processed his own death and noticed he wasn’t alone.

“Hello Mikey. Miss me?”

His face blanched but his voice was steady. “You.”

“Be more specific, love.”

“You’re Jim Moriarty.”

“Not quite. I mean I was him, but he was a character. My real name is Lucifer.”

“Preposterous!” Mycroft laughed.

“Oh no honey. Look at the facts. You’re dead, talking to a man who should be nearly seventy and here I am fresh and new as the last time we spoke.”

Mycroft looked doubtful but he was a highly logical man, and since they were clearly in the realm of the illogical now he was sensible enough to be a bit flexible.

“Very well. I suppose you’ve come to damn me?”

“I want to offer you a job.”

“Need a supervisor for the roasting spits and floggers?”

“Something like that,” Jim smiled, “Come along dear, we’ve got so much to discuss.”

He offered Mycroft his hand and the elder Holmes took it. Jim raised a brow.

“I expected _some_ fight about this.”

“Why? I am dead. Clearly I was not good enough for Heaven, so where else would I go?”

“That’s the spirit, pet.”

 

Sherlock was lounging in his little section of what he called the Carnival Level. It was a separate room set up a little like Jim’s main throne tent, with a huge sprawling bed and some staggered tables of food and drink. There was a soft murmur in the cloth corridor and Sherlock felt the heat that preceded Jim’s presence. He sat up and a second later the devil was standing in Sherlock’s doorway with an enormous, unsettling grin.

“Sherly darlin’?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” Jim stepped aside.

Sherlock’s brows shot up as his brother walked in. He looked good, his suit a bit tight but his hair full and curly. He threw Jim a piercing look and the Devil rolled his eyes.

“Oh don’t look at me like that. Would you have rushed to his deathbed? I thought it was better to avoid that dramatic scene and cut straight to the real reunion.”

Mycroft glanced between them as his initial shock wore off. His expression held some lingering confusion of what Sherlock was doing in Hell and why he was so friendly with Jim. Mycroft’s gaze lingered over the black wings sprouting from Sherlock’s shoulders and his face turned utterly, utterly crestfallen.

“Oh God.” He moaned.

“We don’t mention him much here, Mycroft.” Sherlock stood, draping the black sheet around his middle.

“This is even worse than I thought.”

“Relax, it wasn’t your fault. Jim didn’t need the things you told him and he personally made sure my jump was fatal. You couldn’t have fought him, Mikey. He has certain advantages at his disposal.”

“But…surely you don’t belong here.”

“I didn’t get much say in it but it’s much more entertaining than you’d think. All my old pals are here. What was it, assassination?”

“Lung cancer.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I lied.”

“Mikey lied a lot,” Jim smirked, “He used to think the most interesting things about _you_ , Sherly.”

 

A terrified look crept over Mycroft’s face but he pushed it away. Sherlock raised a brow.

“What sort of things?”

“It was when you were a teenager. All long leeeeegs and sultry pouts. The secret smoking, the shirts with the sleeves rolled up-”

“Stop it.” Mycroft said quietly.

“No need to be shy with us, darlin’. I’ve seen every sin there is to see.”

Sherlock was studying his brother with a speculative look, probably running the knowledge against his memories of adolescence. Mycroft fought an urge to shift on his feet, only succeeding because he had a lifetime of playing calm and confident.

“What are you going to do with me?” he said, partly to deflect Jim’s interest and partly because he always needed to know the next step.

“Your biggest crime is signing away lives. That should earn you a spot on the Eighth Level.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to Jim, brow creased. Mycroft didn’t know what the Eighth Level was but obviously it wasn’t good. Jim licked his canine and grinned.

“But I want to see if you’ve got the potential to work under me, Mikey. I’d just tickled by the idea of my very own demonic Ice Man.”

Sherlock relaxed. Mycroft eyed his brother’s wings again as Jim watched him carefully. The man had darkness in an efficient way, detached enough to feel no remorse if he believed it was the proper thing to do. He knew his actions were wrong but did not repent because they were necessary. However he wasn’t inherently the kind of man who would willingly lead others astray for his masters unless he believed in that sovereign hand completely. He might have ruined people’s lives for England and Elizabeth, but he wouldn’t damn them for the Devil. There was no ‘greater good’ in Hell.

And he was strong, in will and character and long set in his ways. Mycroft seemed to accept the inevitability of his position but he might actually prefer eternal torture to being a demon and compromising himself. If Jim wanted to corrupt him it would have to be drastic.

“Why don’t you two catch up? I’m sure Sherly’s quite ignorant of how you wound down your life.”

He reached out and brushed Sherlock’s cheek affectionately, planting his voice in the brunette’s head.

 _He wanted you, Sherly. But he had to be the big brother and father both. He had to be a righteous man_.

Sherlock met his eyes and twitched a brow. Jim bowed himself out, confident Sherlock had the message.

 

Sherlock had never really thought of his brother like that before. He was _Mycroft_ , old and fat and annoying. He was clever but only used it to frustrate the younger Holmes. Now he ran his new gaze over the soul. He wasn’t as beautiful as Jim but he had big, firm hands and square shoulders and a layer of subdued lust rippling under his skin. Sherlock could see the murky patches of sin shifting over him, terrible things he’d never known about, things that as a demon were more attractive than any looks or personality. He knew Jim wanted a broken, obedient Mycroft and he’d always enjoyed pushing his big brother’s buttons.

“Come sit with me, Mikey,” he leaned back on the bed, sheet falling slightly to expose his hips, “We’ll talk.”

Mycroft shuffled over with that instinctual submission all souls had for demons and sat on the edge of the mattress, legs crossed awkwardly. He still moved as if he was used to it hurting, combined with the same careful elegance he’d had as long as Sherlock could remember.

“I am sorry to see you here Sherlock but you seem to be doing well for yourself.”

“I had to stay busy somehow.”

“And your connection to Lucifer?”

Sherlock’s smirk got bigger as he propped himself on one elbow. “We’re companions, for want of a better term.”

“You sleep together.”

“Occasionally.”

“Do you have an emotional attachment?”

Sherlock laughed, well aware how Mycroft stiffened at the glorious low sound. “Jim doesn’t exactly do fidelity or trust. We are fond of each other, that’s all.”

Mycroft clenched his hands on his knees and nodded stiffly. Sherlock saw the flicker of jealousy swirl out of him in a green mist, almost obscured by the accompanying anger. Mycroft still wanted to protect his brother from the monsters that lived under the bed.

“I don’t suppose you know if Mummy or Father are...”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh he’s here. But Mummy at least made it upstairs.”

Mycroft nodded again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see his father, especially if he was being punished, but it was nice to have the option.

“Though of course they’re not really our parents anymore.”

He frowned at Sherlock. “What do you mean?”

“They’re just souls. They retain their memories and feelings for people they knew but they don’t exist in any kind of flesh and DNA way.”

“I’m corporeal.”

“Yes but your body’s gone. This version of you remembers being brothers but technically we’re not related. Everyone’s alone down here.”

That thought sent Mycroft into a spiral of soft sadness, contemplation and – to Sherlock’s amusement – a tiny flicker in that hovering lust. He decided to test Jim’s theory.

 

Sherlock scooted forward until he could run his nails across the back of Mycroft’s head, talons extended but still gentle. Mycroft wriggled away.

“What are you doing?”

“Making up for lost time. We’ve been awfully distant these last forty years, Mikey.”

“You were dead.”

“Unfortunate, but some things can’t be helped.”

He leaned in and swept his tongue up Mycroft’s neck. He jerked away, scrambling to his feet.

“Sherlock, what in God’s name-”

“Blasphemy, Mycroft!”

“What is this?” he demanded.

“It’s what you want,” Sherlock rested back on his hands, “What you’ve wanted for a long time.”

“No.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t bother lying, Mikey. I can smell it all over you.”

“Whatever you may believe about our physical forms, in my thoughts we are still brothers.”

“So?”

“So!” Mycroft snapped, “So that means something, Sherlock!”

He waved a hand at the tent walls. “Have you forgotten where we are, Mycroft? _Nothing_ is off-limits down here. We don’t play by your proper rules and codes of conduct.”

“Why are you doing this?” he said sadly, “Is this part of my punishment?”

“It’s your ticket to freedom actually. And besides, who says I don’t see the appeal?”

He stood and sauntered towards Mycroft, the sheet falling away in a mocking parody of that day at Buckingham Palace. Mycroft tried to step back but there was only the unmoving canvas behind him. Sherlock gripped his wrist gently, nose hovering by Mycroft’s neck.

“If you had a heartbeat it would be skyrocketing now. I can smell your fear _and_ your longing – I can see them written over you. You want this, Mycroft. Take it.”

He looked at the other man with a desperate grimace, praying Sherlock would go away and leave him alone. He might be damned but he wasn’t a fiend. He couldn’t take advantage of his little brother, even if he was a demon.

“What is my alternative?”

“Your alternative?” Sherlock raised a brow, looking a tad offended.

“Lucifer mentioned something about the Eighth Level.”

“Oh you don’t want to take that road, Mikey. Eighth is Wrath. That’s where all the traditional torture and savagery happens. Hot pokers and whips and lava, that sort of thing. It’s infinite agony.”

Mycroft shuddered but eased away from Sherlock as much as possible. “Send me there.”

 

Sherlock laughed. “You’d rather spend the rest of existence in pain and torment than admit you want something that used to be taboo? That’s so like you, Mycroft.”

“Send me to the Eighth Level. I...I couldn’t bear to...”

“Shh,” Sherlock tilted his head, “Maybe you need some encouragement, hmm?”

He pressed their lips together and Mycroft stiffened, letting out a small gasp. Sherlock ran his nails along his brother’s waistcoat buttons, making the thread snap until it hung open. He bit Mycroft’s lower lip with his blunt teeth and the elder Holmes shoved at his chest.

“Sherlock, stop this.”

“Why?”

“Because we are – were – brothers.”

“And now you’re a ruined soul and I’m a demon. Nothing could make the current situation _worse_.”

But Mycroft shook his head and leaned away. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slid a hand down Mycroft’s middle, over the soft curve of his belly and down to his crotch. He pressed his cheek against the other man’s and hummed, low and lilting, putting all his desire into the tune. The response was slow at first, Mycroft’s hands clutching at his shoulders ineffectually until the song kicked in. They both groaned as his flesh swelled under Sherlock’s hand, arousal straining against his pants. Sherlock didn’t stop humming as he lazily undid Mycroft’s suspenders and opened his pants, the soul almost pressing into his hand now.

“Kiss me, Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered, “You don’t belong to them anymore.”

He was breathing hard as if fighting back tears, but his body had other ideas, still chasing the friction from Sherlock’s hand. Mycroft stared into his eyes for a long moment before closing the distance between them so enthusiastically their teeth clashed, Sherlock’s canines slicing his lip. The demon revelled in the lust spiralling around them, the pure sin flowing from Mycroft’s mouth to his as their tongues met. It was a better high than any drug, and he laughed low and sinister in his delight.

Mycroft pushed him back towards the bed, falling onto the naked demon. He pinched at Sherlock’s hips, forcing their lower halves together hard and frantic.

“Do you want me, Mikey?”

“Yes, yes god yes.”

“Blasphemy!”

“I don’t give a shit.”

His hands drew Mycroft out of his trousers and positioned him at Sherlock’s entrance. He looked down with concern and the younger Holmes shushed him.

“You can’t hurt me unless I want you to.”

“Sherlock-”

“Do it, Mikey. Take me.”

He pushed forward with a groan, eyes clamped shut as he breached Sherlock, hands fisted in the sheets by his outstretched wings. Sherlock waited until he was all the way in before squeezing his muscles, shocking Mycroft’s eyes open. As soon as their gazes met the soul gasped, looking like a man on fire. The black that surrounded him intensified until his canines extended – just a little. Sherlock smiled.

“There’s the demon. Fuck me, Mikey. Let’s see if we can get your wings by the end of the day.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Fallen Angel (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1997436) by [hotchoco195](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195), [hungryhungryterrors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungryhungryterrors/pseuds/hungryhungryterrors)
  * [The Demon Debased](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4550010) by [Moire (AlessNox)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/Moire)




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